


The Hand that Holds the Leash

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Drug Addiction, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, M/M, MI6 is presently lacking a Quartermaster, Silva never defected, Silva would love to be Quartermaster and is nearly smart enough to forcibly take the job, Slow Build, The Q we know and love is NOT part of MI6, damaged Q, vulnerable Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 140,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silva never went rogue, and is one of the top agents of MI6 - along with Bond, who may not be as good with computers, but is arguably the better shot.  The two get along (even if Silva is an egomaniac), and MI6 is running smoothly.  The only drama they have outside of missions is the fact that Silva wants to be Quartermaster, and is willing to bully anyone to get the job.  Unfortunately, he's smart enough to get it, being a computer genius with few morals.  </p><p>But then the unthinkable happens: a hacker appears, a hacker who can take apart MI6 like a child taking apart a puzzle.  The hacker is fast, erratic, and more ingenius than even the outraged Silva.</p><p>And Bond is intrigued, and amazed despite himself.  </p><p>I don't know where this story is going, but this is where it starts.  The Q we know and love from 'Skyfall' never entered MI6, and instead is running scared on the outside, with the world pulling at his leash.  A mind as powerful as Q's is only as benevolent as the hand that holds the leash...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hacked

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter! I'm giving M/M a try, but don't expect anything for a bit - Q won't appear quite yet in the story. 
> 
> I do NOT plan on Bond and Silva being together!!! I have never liked Silva, and if you do, I suggest...well, okay, you can read this chapter. I admit that Silva is a terrifyingly smart being, and I've given him a bit of attention in this chapter. But the two are not and will not be together, just fyi
> 
> Anyway - summary: a bit of background leading up to the unprecedented shut-down of all MI6. Needless to say, M is ticked, and Bond is being is usual, imperturbable self. As it so happens, his imperturbable self soon finds a skinny, unkempt young man in a coffee shop who just might be the least assuming hacker in history.
> 
> And the most intriguing.

The day the power went out at MI6 headquarters, ‘panic’ took on a whole new meaning. Of course, being MI6, the execution of this panic was far different – as the focal point of Britain’s best spies, the personnel of MI6 weren’t the types to throw their hands in the air and scream in fright – but the panic was still real.

MI6 did _not_ experience power outages like some second–rate housing complex.

“Bond, what’s your status?” M’s tight, tense voice snapped down the line like a verbalized spark. She sounded like she wanted to stab someone, and likely did.

MI6 had been in the dark for fifteen minutes already, and it was only thanks to the autonomy of cellphones that anyone was talking to anyone at all. The fact that it was midnight didn’t help either.

Bond, his face as untroubled as ever, the light of his phone and a more distant flashlight making his eyes an almost fluorescent ice color, pressed the ear-bud more securely into his ear before answering, “Here with Mr. Silva. We’re almost to the generators to try and figure out why they’re not kicking in.”

“Good,” M snapped, and then he heard her talking to someone else. From what Bond could tell, the communication network of MI6 had been reduced to multiple mobiles and party-lines. It was so embarrassing as to be almost unbelievable, and everyone was hoping that the media could be strangled before they made a story of this.

Then again, the truth was so ridiculous that Bond doubted anyone would believe them.

“Ahhh!” Silva exclaimed in that oiled-smooth, graceful way of his as his flashlight lit upon a door, “Heeere we are.” Sounding contented as a cat in the sun or a child finding his favorite toy, the larger agent tested the doorknob. Locked. The keypad next to it would have accepted codes that they knew, but that was like saying a car would take you somewhere without gasoline. The keypad was as blank and useless as everything else remotely electrical in the whole place.

Bond – reasonably sure that M wouldn’t be getting back to him for a bit yet – turned his attention to the door and pushed past Silva without a word, hammering a foot into the door with similar stoicism. Two such solid kicks saw the door as far less of an obstacle than before. In fact, it quite considerately swung open.

“And this is what we have been reduced to,” Silva mused with regret that may or may not have been feigned. It was hard to tell with Agent Silva; most people couldn’t even deal with him. Bond could, so far, but it was only a matter of luck and timing that he was even in the MI6 building right now, in between missions. Silva clucked his tongue reprovingly even as he let Bond precede him through the door with long, smooth strides. “Breaking into our own nest!”

Silva had always been a bit more of a… colorful being. For his part, Bond ignored the amusing metaphor and just scanned the new hallway they were in, getting his bearings. Since Silva had the flashlight, he let the man lead again. For two such disparate characters, they made a good team: Silva was terrifyingly smart, while Bond never hesitated, and had a poker face as impenetrable as a concrete wall. Bond also saw no problem in breaking down doors. Silva would probably mourn the damage done later, while his lidded eyes danced with amusement the whole time.

“Bond?” It was M again, making sure he knew she was back on the line and back in his ear.

Eyes on the darkness so as not to be blinded by Silva’s flashlight weaving ahead of them, Bond replied with polite succinctness, “Yes?”

“Progress? You say you’re still with Mr. Silva?” It was hard to tell which was more obvious in her voice: how harried she was, or how breathtakingly furious she was at this whole situation. For a woman who was used to control or at least a level of omnipotence through the technology of MI6, this had to be crippling.

“Yes, and nearly to the generators,” 007 replied with perfect assurance, knowing that it would do no good to admit that many of these halls looked disturbingly different when viewed in complete darkness rather than under the bright glare of fluorescent lights. Still, as one of the top field agents – Mr. Silva being his only rival, by all admittance – Bond was used to adversity, and Silva seemed far too self-assured to be lost.

“All right, get that up and running then. If…  If it looks like it will take awhile-” The uncertainty was new; Bond quirked an eyebrow at the break in the flow of the woman’s perpetually tart words. This must have rattled her as much as everyone. What she proceeded to say, however, made it clear that there were others panicking far more than she: “-Let Mr. Silva stay and work on the generators, and make your own way over to the Quartermaster’s Branch. 008 says that the power loss has locked down the whole section, and all of the little technicians are mewling on the other side of the reinforced doors like small mice in a dark box. Those are 008’s words, verbatim, mind you.”

Bond’s mouth curled up into a bare smile, a grin by his standards, even as Silva turned to look over his shoulder at him. The flashlight beyond made a bright corona of the man’s pale hair, and glinted faintly off his unsettlingly intense eyes. “Dear old Mum having a spot of trouble?” he asked playfully in his rolling tones.

Ever-so-faint smile still in place, Bond just replied smoothly and obliquely, “Those of us who are not agents are not taking this power-outage quite so well. The quicker we see why the generators haven’t kicked in, the better.”

“Hmmmm,” Silva hummed again, if anything walking slower. He was still looking back at Bond, although that didn’t impede his footing in the slightest – the man was considered one of the best for a reason. He walked with catlike grace that belied his build and size and refusal to look where he was walking. “Well, then we’d better do as Mumsy says, shouldn’t we?”

“I’d imagine so.”

Finally done playing around and unwittingly extending the torment of the unfortunate technicians, Silva turned forward again and picked up the pace to a more acceptable speed: fast enough to get where they were going, slow enough not to be caught off-guard by anything unforeseen. Bond listened with one ear to the world around him and with the other to M’s barely hushed cursing on the other end of the line. It was amusing, but only because he’d long since made up his mind not to be disturbed by all of this. It was disturbing – this was an unprecedented event and should not have been happening – but Bond was a field agent, and that meant his mind was quick to accept things as they were. For example, asking why you were surrounded by enemy gunmen did not make them go away. Shooting them did, so Bond was now patiently (and metaphorically) ‘shooting’ this new problem, working with Silva to try and get MI6 up and running again.

Silva made one of the almost musical exclamations he was so known for, having found the door to the room he was looking for. “And here were are,” he stated pleasantly, and this time tried the door with more success, “And we aren’t even locked out.”

Bond noticed that this door did not have a keypad on the side – it was an older part of MI6. So far, it seemed that every door with any kind of electronic lock had been sealed. Slightly edgy beneath his veneer of calm, Bond remained at the door while Silva went in. After all, only one of them really had much technological knowledge. The extent of Bond’s ability with electronics were using a cellphone or hotwiring a car when needed, along with perhaps a few other tricks that he could pull out if needed. He mollified himself with the fact that he was a better shot than Silva was.

His flashlight sporadically jumping around the room as he inspected it, Mr. Silva talked almost constantly to himself as he made his way around the room and its nonfunctional contents. Used to this, Bond just folded his arms, leaned against the open doorway, murmured, “In the generator room. We’ll keep you posted,” for M to hear, and waited. As he’d expected, the other agent fell silent suddenly, meaning he’d finally found something to catch his attention.

“You know, this just might be interesting, James,” the statement rolled off his tongue from across the room.

“How so?” MI6 had had enough ‘interesting’ for one day. All of this was paramount to Fort Knox finding out that it had been broken into by termites: irrational, impossible, and yet somehow disastrously true.

Silva’s face was visible as he tapped at his lower lips with his steepled fingers, flashlight braced absentmindedly between his palms. “There is nothing wrong.”

And with that, Silva flipped a switch, and the generators all came on. The room itself lit up, and power hummed… but beyond the doorway Bond was standing in, darkness continued to reign. Blinking in surprise that he usually kept better hidden, Bond tried to take this in before looking back at Silva with a tight, angrily questioning expression.

“Do not blame me!” the pale-haired man waved aside the grim look flippantly, making a broad gesture at the generators, “It would appear that the problem is not quite so localized as we thought.”

“Bond, what is going on?” M demanded.

007 sighed, wishing that Silva hadn’t ‘misplaced’ his cellphone so M could bother both of them. He growled into the receiver by his ear, “We just turned the generators on. They’re working.”

“Obviously not,” was the sharp reply, “Because the rest of us are still in the dark!”

“I know. It would appear that we’ve got other problems.” Then, deciding he’d been heckled enough, he pulled the little bud out of his ear and extended it towards his partner. “Silva? Anything to add?” He managed to make the silk-smooth tone sound like a threat, or maybe it was in the hard, daring glint in his blue eyes.

Silva raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment – he just reached out his hand and took the earpiece. Soon he and M were in what Bond imagined was a heated conversation about generators. He could only assume: he caught only Silva’s words, and Silva quite stubbornly refused to ever sound angry or flustered. Even with M no doubt screaming at him, the man spoke as if his tongue were spinning sugar. Soon the conversation devolved into computers. Having decidedly less experience in that area, Bond listened only long enough to catch the gist of it.

“Masterful work… No, no, there’s no way this was an accident, although, quite frankly, I’m not sure how it’s even possible… Whoever did this, I assume, must have attacked the computer system directly. Sort of like… hmmm… think of – dismantling a light switch instead of just flipping it off, hmm? … Well, yes, of course I can fix it. I’ll just need to run a new cable to a computer directly connected to MI6,” Silva finished with political smoothness, still smiling like a cat eating mice. Bond was unflappable, but Silva was indomitably well-pleased in appearance at all times.

M must have argued, because Silva’s smile sharpened just the faintest touch; mostly it was in his eyes, which slitted and became more like chips of cold stone than they usually were. “No, my dear, a laptop would not work. It hasn’t worked before now, so obviously it won’t work now. The whole mainframe would appear to have had its power cut – snip, snip, snip – see?”

Realizing that this chat might take awhile, Bond pushed away from his post at the door and smoothly padded forward to pick up the discarded flashlight. He indicated the still-dark hallway with it. “I’ll go see if there’s a way to run a cable from here to… wherever it is you need it,” he offered without making any effort to understand precisely what the more heavyset man was wanting.

Silva’s smile spread from ear to ear. “Oh, would you, James?” he purred, then added while obviously ignoring the head of MI6 in his ear, “I think the Quartermaster’s Branch might have a wire that would suffice. Perhaps they might even have enough brains amongst them to figure out how to stretch it between here and there.” The smile had turned smug and demeaning, and Bond was reminded of the ongoing troubles with the Quartermaster’s Branch – namely that they had no Quartermaster, per se. The last one had died quite suddenly of old age combined with a foolish stint with skydiving. The man had only gone on vacation once in his long career, and apparently had felt the need to stuff everything into it – including a sudden heart-attack. He hadn’t had time to train a replacement.

So far, the Quartermaster’s Branch was a misnomer, and was in fact run by many technicians but led by no one person. It wasn’t the best system, but it worked, and it was supposed to be temporary.

Supposed to. Thanks to Mr. Silva’s peculiarities and domineering personality, that was becoming a rather sticky situation.

First of all, Silva was very full of himself. This was known by all except perhaps Mr. Silva himself, who didn’t think he was anything but brilliant, which may or may not be the same thing. Bond was aware that his sometimes-teammate was pompous, and lived with that fact in the same way that he lived with the fact that M was snarky and every stand-in Quartermaster was overprotective of their equipment. The only real problem that Mr. Silva’s self-confident nature caused was that he was preventing a new Quartermaster from being chosen.

Bond thought of it like a possessive dog preventing his mistress from kissing her boyfriend. Silva just kept getting in the way and constantly insinuating himself in the location and the situation, so that it was severely uncomfortable any time anyone tried to step into the old Quartermaster’s shoes. The truth of it all? Silva wanted the title of Quartermaster.

Honestly, Bond only half understood it, and the politics undoubtedly behind it were above his pay-grade, as far as he was concerned. Silva had always liked having social clout, and being not only one of the top field-agents but also the field agent that had wormed his way into the lofty position of Quartermaster. It was arguable that Silva would actually be ten times the Quartermaster that old Sullivan had been, with his affinity for and love of technology.

All in all, there was no one that Bond could think of that he wanted around right now to ‘fix’ MI6, so he smirked faintly and stalked out the door to do as the other man asked. Pointedly, he left his cellphone behind. Sometimes it was much nicer to be off the grid.

The strangeness of MI6 in the dark was wearing off for the 00-agent, and he found the darkness comforting as he struck out on his own. He wrapped the front end of the flashlight in his fist, so that instead of a bright beam of light there was only a dull, reddish glow seeping through the flesh of his fingers. This was better; he had disliked how the full light of the flashlight had blinded his eyes. Silva was a top agent, but sometimes he missed the finer subtleties of survival.

Nobody had to know that James Bond got lost twice in his trek down to the Quartermaster’s Branch, but he got there without releasing the full glare of his borrowed flashlight, and therefore inadvertently snuck up on everyone like a ghost. He folded out of the darkness and into the frenetic light of two more flashlights and a smartphone with an LED light-app. At least one of the people he snuck up on was a 00-agent like himself, so it was just plain sad that the man didn’t hear him coming. Everyone jumped and Bond ignored them, instead turning his attention to the door that was still closed. Just for good measure, he tested the handle, releasing a little more light from his flashlight to remind him of just what kind of door he was dealing with, and then he gave a pound on the door. He could, indeed, hear technicians whining like kittens from beyond, and he called briefly, “Get back!” Then, reasonably sure that no one beyond the door could be injured anyway, he backed off and fired his gun.

The other 00-agent swore and everyone else screamed. Beyond the door were the sounds of stampeding herd animals – the Quartermaster’s Branch was home to a delicate sort of people, albeit smart ones. In the silence that followed there was a sigh from the phone’s speakerphone, and then M’s voice saying resignedly, “Bond is there, isn’t he?”

“The door’s open,” Bond offered helpfully in his own defense. A nudge of his boot had the damaged door swinging open. Eyes and spectacles reflected the rescuers' lights as technicians peered warily out from behind chairs and desks. They looked very much like nocturnal creatures blinking from within the dense darkness of their own little cave.

“Bond, you know we have to fix everything you break.”

“Mr. Silva said he needed high-tech supplies,” Bond shrugged, “You and I both know that that is not my department, so I needed to get into Q-Branch.”

Bond was the only one who still habitually called it Q-Branch, now that it was effectively Q-less. But Bond had always liked the nickname, and even more so, he liked brevity. If he could save syllables, he would. Now he worked on saving his ears as well by ignoring M – who groaned and then began berating him for constantly breaking MI6 equipment – and instead turned his attention to doing what he could to get MI6 up and running again. Belatedly realizing that their salvation was at hand, the technicians began pouring forth, but a few quick words from Bond stayed them. He relayed what he knew of Mr. Silva’s wishes. It was a testament to the pale-haired agent’s reputation that eyes immediately widened and the Q-Branch techies instantly began busying themselves. It was hard to tell if they feared or respected Silva more – the man was a force of nature, and very rarely a benign one. James Bond wasn’t exactly a house-cat either.

Driven by nervousness, intimidation, and the obvious need to fix up MI6’s electrical system, techies were soon rushing about.

“I thought you were in Egypt?” 003 asked, coming up to where Bond leaned idly against the wall and watched things happen around him. The other man was muscular, but somehow didn’t manage to radiate the level of dangerousness that Bond did just by existing.

Trusting that Silva’s wishes were being fulfilled even if he didn’t understand the technical side of this in the slightest, Bond turned opaque blue eyes to his comrade. “Well, if I’d known things were going to be this interesting here, I’d have stayed somewhere boring,” he muttered.

No one obviously wanted to say it, but only Bond was stoic enough to hold his tongue. 003 shifted from foot to foot like the uneasy knifer that he was before blurting, “What in the world is going on?! I mean – MI6 losing power? I haven’t lost power since I was in grade-school and a squirrel somehow got into the electrical box near our house.” He gave himself a shake, muscles flexing, as if trying to dispel the wrongness of all of this. “But MI6?! This just shouldn’t be able to bloody happen.”

Grunting in agreement, Bond nodded, “True. Can we contact any of the agents in the field?”

003 blinked as if this problem hadn’t occurred to him. “Um…I don’t know. I haven’t asked. That would be a bit of a sticky problem, wouldn’t it?”

This whole time, Bond had been considering the various reasons that anyone might want to impose a black-out situation on MI6, and that was just one of the possibilities that had come to his head. Bond didn’t trouble himself overly much with imaginative thinking, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t smart or able to formulate ideas in his head. Seeing agents stumble around in the dark might have been funny, but this was still a powerful spy organization with many delicate projects running at all times – projects that could be easily upset at great detriment to agents' lives if things at MI6 went crazy.

There was so much that MI6 was constantly doing that Bond would probably never know precisely why someone had decided to attack MI6. There were simply too many people with too many reasons to do something like this.

What troubled him was that there were precious few people with the skill to do this.

~^~

An hour later, and Silva had the connection he needed. Bond, lacking anything else to do, stood like a lazy bodyguard and watched without comprehending. He was effectively useless muscle at the moment: no one was physically breaching the walls of MI6, so he didn’t need to attack or defend anyone, and with the whole system down, there was no way for anyone to give him any assignments. He’d have just left to return to his flat and sleep, but that felt like a dereliction of duty.

So, all in all, he was next to useless here, but didn’t feel like leaving.

No wonder M thought he was annoying.

Silva was working in the generator room now, a laptop before him and a million wires connecting him to the heart of MI6 and even more wires connecting him to the only source of power that MI6 presently had. A small flock of uneasy techies fluttered around him, too timid to say anything to the domineering agent but ready to jump if he told them to. So far, Silva was in his own world, although he was muttering about it enough that everyone could share in the experience.

“My, my, my,” he clucked quickly while he eyed the screen and typed wildly, “… Extraordinary workmanship… artistic, really.” He continued to type, and Bond raised an eyebrow at his comrade’s antics. Silva spent some minutes looking enthralled and impressed as he took the problem apart, and just as many minutes looking monstrously angry as he was outsmarted by this conundrum.

Bond snagged one of the techies, having a question building in him that was finally getting too much to hold back. “Does it usually take this long for Silva to solve a problem?”

Eyes magnified by ridiculously thick spectacles turned pensively between Bond – a man known for shooting people – and Silva, a man known for having enough skill to ruin your life and weak enough morals to do it. Fortunately, the latter seemed as though he wasn’t listening. “He… uh… well…” The techy fiddled with his glasses before admitted in an undertone, “This is a particularly sophisticated piece of work, and it is taking even Mr. Silva a bit of effort.”

It was a candid answer; Bond could read it in the man’s face, and let the fellow go. From what he was hearing Silva say – and M reply, since she was now on speakerphone on the table next to the pale agent – it sounded like some pretty tricks had been used to hack and take down MI6. So far, power hadn’t even been restored yet, although Silva had narrowed down where the breaks were. Techies from the Quartermaster’s Branch had been sent to fix that in the simplest way Silva knew how – simply replacing things. If a wire was damaged, just replace it: that was the idea. In most cases, the damaged items were more complicated than just wires, but ‘techies’ were more than just simple orderlies. Silva optimistically predicted power to be back up before morning. By then, he also said that he’d have their attacker on his knees.

Bond suspected that Silva was boasting. Blue eyes narrowed, 007 considered Silva’s tendency to think excessively highly of himself, a fact that had caused MI6 problems in the past. It had been made very clear by M in the past that Silva was a dangerous agent when he started thinking that he was invincible, which was deliriously often. The problem was, sometimes Silva _was_ invincible, and that only encouraged him. Bond was considered a ‘balancing influence’. Bond figured that what he really represented was a babysitter with a gun, one of the few agents skilled enough to easily shoot his way out of any problem that Silva’s ego got them into.

Right now, Silva was having his godlike invincibility tested by whoever had turned MI6 off like a nightlight. Usually a man full of jokes and oily smiles, Silva was beginning to show the more brutal side of his nature: the more he was thwarted, the more his shark-broad smile faltered and began to show more teeth in a grimace. Those eyes became like ice, and Bond became a little more watchful, aware that Silva had no problem with lashing out – and while Bond could handle himself, the techies were no match for a fully-trained field agent. Fortunately, all of Silva’s mind was taken up by his technological foe, something that no one had seen happen before.

Usually, Silva took apart computer problems with the speed of a riled school of piranhas taking apart an unlucky carcass. That meant he was rarely stumped for longer than fifteen minutes, no matter how tough the problem. Enemies of MI6 had tried to send all manner of viruses and destructive computer packages, but they’d been summarily shot down by the new would-be-Quartermaster of MI6 as Silva strutted his stuff. It was as if MI6 had been guarded by dogs up until now, but suddenly they’d found a wolf willing to do the job. Silva ‘the wolf’ was already making a lot of people mad with his ability to eat up all of their attempts at mischief. Silva loved the attention.

But now he was snarling as if he were getting his teeth pulled one by one, no matter how hard he tried to bite with them.

It was a full four hours before power was back up and MI6 was back in working order. The techies said in whispered tones that Silva only really managed to win because the mystery hacker must have gotten tired of fighting him first; Silva was a fireball of energy coupled with the determination of a wolverine at a jugular.

With MI6 up and running again, Silva celebrated with his usual lack of modesty or humility, and no one could argue that he had done the organization a great service. Even Bond had to admit that he was impressed. Obviously, whoever had attacked MI6’s systems was good, but Silva had bested this enemy.

And then, after barely a week of merriment and peace, the whole of MI6 crashed again.

~^~

“Bond, your status?”

Sometimes the concealed earpieces could be obnoxious and annoying, but this one was well hidden and turned down to an inconspicuous volume. It allowed the agent to sit at the little coffee shop without drawing attention as he watched other patrons drink coffee or eat bagels or make good use of the free wifi. It was the last option that had drawn him here.

Hiding the motion of his lips with his cup as he pretended to drink a cup of dark coffee, he replied in a relaxed murmur, “Same as last time you asked. If Silva is sure that this is the place where our hacker is hooking in from, then I’m sure that I’ll see something soon.”

There was a quiet moment, as if M were conferring with Silva in the background. Mr. Silva had still not reached his goal of becoming Quartermaster, but after the second shutdown of MI6 by an outside source, he’d definitely risen in the ranks to unprecedented heights. The whispered rumor – the whispered truth, possibly – was that Silva and his genius were the only reason that MI6 hadn’t fallen permanently. In fact, in the last attack (its perpetrator still unknown, its purpose still unclear), Silva had fought back with a viciousness that could only stem from lacerated pride, and he’d followed that thread of attack nearly back to its origin. Silva had been like a fire, burning a trail back down to its source.

That source had been wilier than even Silva, however, a fluffy white tail disappearing down a rabbit hole. As galling as it was, the best Mr. Silva could do was to deduce that the rabbit hole led vaguely here.

Thus, Bond’s assignment frequenting a large, open coffee shop with more computers in evidence than he had eyes to follow. The weather was nice and people were out, and Bond was using all of his significant skills to deduce which of these varied people was repeatedly making a mockery of MI6’s defenses and which were just wasting their lives on Facebook. That was why Bond had been sent: Silva was needed back ‘home’ with a computer, and none of the other 00-agents had Bond's record for reading body-language and situations.

Bond appreciated why M was talking to him and not Silva. Oh, he didn’t doubt that Silva wanted to talk – the man valued control, even if he didn’t want to admit it and everyone else did his or her best to politely ignore that fact. However, M was obviously keeping the large, pale-haired man in the background while she handled the communications more diplomatically. Considering how hard Silva could be to handle, this was quite a feat.

“Mr. Silva wants me to inform you that he is sure that the perpetrator is using the internet somewhere within that coffee shop, 007,” M’s clipped tones reassured him.

“Or does he mean just within reach of this wifi hotspot?” Bond rejoined, lips barely moving but eyes never stopping. Dressed in jeans and a button-up, slightly wrinkled tan shirt, Bond looked quite ordinary, especially as he kept himself carefully still and quiet so as not to bring attention to his athletic build and sapphire-sharp eyes.

There was a minor explosion in the background, indicating that Silva had lost his cool just a little, although that didn’t bother Bond in the slightest. He simply continued to pretend to play Solitaire on the laptop MI6 had provided him with and reminded himself that Silva was miles away.

M snapped something particularly cutting before her voice reappeared in Bond’s ear with a slightly tired sigh, “That is quite possible, Bond, meaning you should keep alert.”

“Always do, Ma'am,” he replied with all politeness in deference to her rank. It still had the faintest endearing sound to the title, but at least he never went so far as Silva, calling her ‘Mumsy’ and the like. That brave Bond was not. He went back to scanning the crowd around him.

It was a well-used sort of place. It had the space to accommodate many and the food and drink to please many. The town around it also catered to a variety of castes, from the rich to the poor to the frustratingly-in-between. There was a businessman two tables behind Bond, a mother of two just outside the broad awning and to his left, and an obvious druggy huddled against the wall just out of the slanting sunlight coming in from the east, all of them with some form of technology that could, conceivably, connect to the internet. How it could ride the internet and then plummet like an atmosphere-ripping meteorite through MI6 defenses was another matter entirely, and totally Mr. Silva’s business. Bond was just after the man.

“Twenty-six people with either laptops, iphone, or ipads in attendance, M,” he informed M obediently, eyes ticking off the possible suspect.

“Well, I hardly figure that the phones will be a threat to MI6,” was M’s comment, which Bond would have taken with a grain of salt, but then Silva managed to get his voice across the wire, too.

“Very true, very true. You may not know a lot about hacking, James,” purred Silva’s smooth voice, just a little less smooth as this hacker continued to evade his cyber fingers, “but just think of it as trying to use a water gun to shoot a suspect.”

Bond also took this taunting with a grain of salt. “I believe I can see the point,” he grumbled back with the faintest curl of his lip in wryness. He narrowed his list, which still contained the businessman but now cut out the mother of three and the nervous, thin druggy. There were at least eleven others. Bond began to use his training to read body-language, already thinking of what a nervous hacker would look like if battling a furious Silva over cyberspace.

“NO!” he heard Silva bellow distantly in his ear. It was not the first exclamation he’d heard: already, Silva was growing frustrated, and his façade of sugary calm broke when he was diverted again and again by the hacker. Now – today, in the third attack in one month – the hacker was digging his way determinedly towards files on shipping reports to France, and with every second winning. That was making Silva more enraged that anyone to date had seen, probably because no one had ever beaten him in such a way before. The shout Bond heard was a sign of another tally for the enemy, and Bond knew he had to work a little faster. Blue eyes narrowed, making him a picture in gold and glacial blue as the noonday sun spilled down across his tousled blond hair.

The frustrating thing was…no one looked like they were hacking MI6. Bond figured that such a task would involve a high level of stress and concentration, and while some people did show some of these things, there was nothing obvious. The 00-agent began to get a touch stressed himself, his jaw clenching and his eyes going from sapphire to ice.

M was no different, as things were obviously snowballing on her end. “Bond, you might need to speed things up a bit. According to Mr. Silva, our hacker is busting down firewalls like it’s a game.”

“I didn’t say that!” Silva bellowed without an ounce of his usual control, forcing Bond to realize that things were deadly-serious now. If Silva was losing his cool and shouting like a child – pride forgotten, or at least wounded so much that it was practically nonfunctional – then something truly atrocious was going on. No one but no one beat Silva at his own game, and Silva’s game was destroying opponents, and he very often did that through computers with almost artistic flair. Now, instead, he was yelling in wrathful outrage: “This hacker is… is… without direction, without focus! He should be an amateur, because only an amateur would care about the systems he’s targeting, yet he’s attacking with the skill of a master!”

Bond hid a wince as Silva got louder, but the real wince he felt came from the shock of the words: Silva was complimenting the hacker while at the same time frothing at the mouth from the sounds of it. Both were disturbing reactions, because it took a lot to make Silva show anger, and even more to impress him.

Whomever MI6 had suddenly fallen into battle with, they were good, and Bond needed to spot them. Feeling adrenalin singe his veins, bringing the world into razor focus, he asked in flat, stony, serious tone, “Are you sure that the hacker is in this coffee shop?”

Silva growled – actually growled. But before M could field an answer for him, the larger, pale-haired agent snapped, “Yes. He’s… skilled…” Now Silva was trying to backtrack, to take back just how impressed he was by the person who was beating him. “… But he’s not perfect. And I am.”

“Silva!” M snapped, putting her foot down as the God-complex reared its ugly head. Everyone knew that Silva had it, but most everyone tried to turn a blind eye to that massive, dangerous ego.

Silva continued stubbornly, “He hasn’t been able to cover all of his bases to keep me from flanking him – I know where he is. He’s there, with you. Or she.”

M snorted something about Silva being sexist, although his belated addendum was appreciated. Still, Bond could hear the edge on her voice: the stiff, snappy, sharp woman was afraid. She was afraid because Silva was failing.

The businessman was frowning tensely at his screen, but he wasn’t sweating; the woman with the flying fingers type-type-typing on her laptop was working on a screen that too closely resembled an online chat-room – Bond could just see a vague reflection in the window. The person with the iPad wasn’t concentrating enough. The old man with the angry face couldn’t type swiftly enough to be a threat.

So many people… Bond’s eyes were dashing from face to face while his body didn’t move. His body was a mass of tense muscle, a bomb waiting to explode at a touch. All the while he listened to M and Silva panicking in his ear, their words growing louder and sharper and wilder by the second. Through their narration, Bond experienced the systematic fall of MI6’s defenses. It sounded as though a ball of fire were falling through layer upon layer of cloth, hitting and burning, hitting and burning, fiery teeth eating their way to the next layer. And all the while, Bond felt horribly inadequate, because no matter how hard he scrutinized the crowd around him, he could not find a target.

“Bond! Status!” M demanded, Silva’s high-intensity emotions rubbing off on her as he raged like a thwarted child in the background – a large, smart, very dangerous child.

Truthfully, tightly, 007 replied under his breath, “Nothing conclusive. Believe it or not, there’s no one in here that’s advertising that they’re hacking MI6.”

“Well, someone must look suspicious! Surely hacking us is at least a bit of a challenge.”

“You’d think that, but apparently it’s not as much a challenge as we’d think.” Bond heard the furious, animalistic snarl rippling down the line from Silva, and watched his step. “There are a few people here who look nervous and who could be our hacker, but it’s not clear.” He paused, still scanning the crowd, and said a line he was very familiar with, “I do not have a clear shot.”

M replied with silence, but Bond knew that she was listening and taking him seriously now. Silva might have thought of no one but himself, but M had the ability to put herself in another’s shoes. Right now, Bond’s shoes weren’t easy to stand in: he felt like a heron hunting fish, but realizing that the fish he wanted was more elusive than the ripples in the water. His eyes couldn’t latch onto the target he wanted, but the waves kept rippling, sending out false alarms that were quickly driving Bond mad. His eyes were taking in everything, all at once and in pieces as his brain dissected everything: woman in back, young man two chairs over, elderly couple bent together over a screen, single woman with a frown growing on her face and her coffee growing cold.

But nothing looked enough like a hacker to free Bond from his leash, and just as he was twitching to stand up and shoot… anything!... there was a roar from Silva in his ear: “NO! No, you bloody little…!” Mr. Silva’s words quickly devolved into obscenities not fit for paper or ears.

Obviously, MI6 had lost. Again.

Bond sagged back against his chair with a frustrated, chest-shaking sigh that made a few of his neighbors turn to him for the first time. They hadn’t even noticed him until then. It was ironic: Bond had been a hair’s-breadth away from drawing a gun and killing, but had been all but invisible to those around him.

But not so invisible anymore – at Bond’s sudden, grievous, inadvertent sigh, someone across the room twitched. Blocking out the voices in his earpiece, Bond’s eyes focused like gun-sights.

Just in time to see the thin, timid druggy with the iPhone slip out the door.

On reflex alone – reflexes that 007 had learned to trust with his life – Bond sprung out of his seat. As people shouted and yelped in alarm all around him, he blocked out all but the necessary noises. Soon M was demanding an explanation for what she was hearing from him, but Bond denied her, too. Instead, he focused on the spooked hare that had quit the area with such speed.

People were a blur as Bond tore past them, and his determined eyes caught the way his target turned: tousled, unkempt brown hair, bespectacled eyes, turning to look back and then widening in shock and terror at the sight of Bond. Instantly, the figure sped up, and that was all the incrimination Bond needed.

“Do you have a suspect, Bond?” M demanded.

The druggy was a wasted figure – nothing compared to Bond’s healthy, athletic physique. But the hacker could sure dodge, and was zigzagging with enough skill to counter his ungainliness. “Yes,” Bond stated briefly.

“Good,” M controlled her words, even though she had to be feeling vicious triumph beneath it all, “If you have a shot, take it. But don’t shoot to kill – I want to learn who he’s working for and what they bloody want.”

Instead of going into the argument about how hard it was to shoot to do anything but kill, but just lifted his hand to his gun… and then lowered it. He always listened to MI6, but he didn’t always follow their instructions. One of the things that made him good at what he did was the fact that Bond thought for himself, and now was a good example of that as he raced after the skinny, fleeing young man. With a gun, there was always a chance of killing, and he decided not to risk it, even if it meant losing his target.

The next street posed a problem as Bond got caught on the wrong side of traffic: horns honked and breaks shrieked as people tried not to hit the blonde man weaving in amongst them. A car suddenly came in too fast, the bumper kissing his hip and sending him skidding into a roll. Exasperation roared through him so fast that he nearly shot the tires off the vehicle, but he knew it was more important that he get to his feet. Growling imprecations under his breath and otherwise ignoring the many drivers yelling at him, 007 lurched to his feet and tried to regain his stride.

But by then, he was too late. The last look he got was still across and down the street, at the edge of traffic: a van had stopped, and the flimsy-looking druggy had stopped beside it. Still looking scared as a hunted rabbit behind crooked glasses and a mop of brown hair, the young man stared back at Bond as the van’s side-door opened. Two heads emerged, likewise looking at Bond across the river of cars, their faces twisting into dangerous scowls. Then one of them grabbed the hacker’s arm, making the skinny figure jump, and then all were disappearing into the van.

Only then did Bond draw his gun, eliciting more yelling all around him. He didn’t shoot, however. As he calmly sited and coldly considered targets, the 00-agent nonetheless still felt no urge to shoot. Instincts told him not to, and instincts were usually right.

Instincts and M did not always agree, unfortunately.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?! Did you lose the target?! Did you get a shot?!”

Grimacing and realizing that explaining this was going to be painful, Bond holstered his gun. People around him were running and panicking as if he were Godzilla, but he just started walking off. “He got away,” he admitted, avoiding the fact that he’d had a shot – he’d had those wide, large brown eyes in his sights, and had trailed the muzzle of his gun down to one shaking shoulder – but hadn’t taken it. “The target got away, but I can give a description.”

“Good,” M snapped, barely covering the sound of Silva snorting derisively in the background, “Because I bloody want this dealt with, and I want to know who it is that keeps messing with my systems like they’re a cheap whore.”

 


	2. Crashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is the determined type, and he doesn't give up easily.  
> So, obviously, it makes sense to give chase.  
> Too bad things quickly get out of hand.  
> Bond is going to meet Q, but things are not going as expected.

“Hey! You can’t-!”

That was what M and Silva heard through Bond’s earpiece as the action, against all odds, continued. Silva had stood up from his laptop before succumbing to the temptation to hurl it into the wall, but now his peevish temper fled him in favor of curiosity. While M immediately looked worried by the hectic noises reaching 007’s earpiece (not his voice, but the voice of a stranger nearby), Silva’s eyes lit up with churlish interest. Trouble always seemed to interest both Bond and Silva entirely too much: Bond got into it as if magnetized, and Silva found it all dangerously funny.

“What is going on?” M felt as though she never asked anything else, and wished she could do more than just listen to what was happening. Or perhaps she wished that Bond were more talkative and willing to explain the situation without constant prodding. She moved forward to lean over the speaker as if somehow she could see into it.

There was the sound of an engine, and then the complaining voice disappeared. “Acquiring transportation, Mum,” was Bond’s typically brief, typically understated reply.

While M groaned, Silva stepped forward with his usual smirk and stated more candidly, “Ahhhh, James, you stole a car, didn’t you?”

“Do you want this hacker caught or not?”

Silva laughed. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, James. We think so alike. Do rough him up a bit before you bring him back, hm?”

There was the sound of tires screeching, and either Bond didn’t hear the goad or he ignored it – probably the latter. Bond missed little, but pretended that he missed quite a lot. “Silva,” he barked instead, “Can you give me directions?”

“Better,” the man smirked like a shark, returning to the computer, “Give me the license plate number that I’m sure you’re following, and I’ll be your eye in the sky.” No one doubted that Silva could do it, even though he’d never been in this role before. M barely blinked as she watched the dangerous, pale agent take up the position that their Quartermaster had often filled in the past. At least he’d backed away from the broiling rage that the hacker had put him in earlier.

“Aha!” Silva crowed bare moments later while Bond swore at traffic and M stood by feeling out of her element, “Yesyesyes – I’ve got him, James! And might I say, your getaway car is far more elegant.”

“Thanks,” grunted Bond, and M was sure she heard a level of satisfaction. She promised herself not to ask what kind of car 007 had commandeered. MI6 would have to straighten it out, but she did not have to give 007 unnecessary attention for it. The man had flashy tastes sometimes for a 00-agent.

“Left,” Silva commented almost idly, as one would at a chess game that others were playing.

Bond growled through the earpiece. “I know the van is turning left – I can see it!”

That didn’t bother Silva in the slightest, as he hummed pleasantly and then added in his musical way, “Yes, but he also had no choice but to turn left up ahead, and I dare say it is a tight, tight turn.”

Now Bond swore, and there was the squeal of protesting breaks and the growl of grinding, tortured tires. After a telling silence in which Silva just smiled knowingly, Bond admitted stiffly, “I made the turn.”

“Good, good, James,” Silva purred. After that, he got over his gloating tone and finally decided to be useful. “That means you’re perfectly ready to take the next right. Trust me, there are only so many turns to take – you’ll meet them again in five blocks. If you’re fast enough, that is.”

Now it was M’s turn to curse as she heard the spark of challenge flickering in the air. Bond’s voice sounded just a little wolfish as it came through to them, “Oh, I can drive fast enough.” The engine practically roared.

Quite suddenly, M felt as if she were in a room with two competitive children. Seeing as these children were easily three times her weight in muscle (and one was technically out of her reach anyway), there was little she could do about it, so she just plopped down in a chair and decided to enjoy the ride.

As happy as a kid in a sweets-shop, Silva began giving directions; from where she sat, M could see the multiple screens he was pulling up and switching between, tracking both Bond… in a Ferrari… and a van that must have contained their fleeing hacker. It was good that M was looking, because it quickly became clear that Silva had bitten off just a bit more than he could chew. “Right, Bond, right!” she snapped, seeing that Silva had gotten distracted watching another screen. In the end, it took the two of them (Silva grudgingly sharing the workload) to coordinate the chase-scene, and soon other MI6 agents were crowding around, especially after M convinced Silva to redirect the images from the small laptop to the larger screens around the room for exactly this purpose. It was a wild, wild ride both for Bond – who had no problem cussing out his boss, and even less trouble yelling at Silva – and for M and Silva directing him. It was hard enough tracking one vehicle, especially when that one vehicle was driven by Bond, who seemed to consider roads more as suggestions than necessities. When he went off-road, even Silva’s best could not find ways to keep track of him.

Perhaps Bond could have yelled out landmarks, but usually he just went silent and let M and Silva worry.

He was staying on the van’s tail, however, thanks to his own driving skills and some help from Silva, who thought it was funny to hack into traffic-cams. It took the pale-haired agent a bit of time and effort to do it, but when he did, it provided video to go with their high-speed car-chase. Soon M had to bark at people to leave the room, because agents and techies were openly taking bets on the race.

Now, though, the chase had taken itself into the suburbs. With traffic disappearing, Bond was catching up fast.

M had just turned to look away from the visual traffic cameras to the GPS images when Silva made a disgruntled, “Hmm… wait a moment…” and then there was the sound of screaming tires and ruptured metal. Bond didn’t even swear, but when M turned back, it was to see another vehicle come out perpendicularly and slam into Bond’s car hard enough to send it flying like a toy. The new vehicle looked like the first, a big van, and as M watched, people came out of it.

“Bond?” she demanded, her face frozen and hard but her heart squeezing tight with fear. “Bond?! Mr. Silva, get him on-screen!!” The camera meant to capture speeding cars wasn’t clear and it wasn’t a very wide view, and Bond’s car had been knocked right out of it.

Looking flustered, Mr. Silva tried to do as asked while also trying to appear in control. He was not, and his fingers fumbled on the keys; even if he hadn’t been clumsy with shock, it was likely that he would have been unable to get any better image of the scene.

Bond was not responding. There was no sound whatsoever coming from his earpiece, meaning it was either broken or Bond was not breathing and dead. MI6 could track the little pieces of technology, but right now it was blinking on and off erratically on the map. With that avenue effectively useless, the woman’s eyes turned sharply back to the video upload, watching the two people that had come out of the van – they did not look upset or surprised about the accident. In fact, they were drawing guns from the waistbands of their trousers as they swiftly swarmed forward.

“BOND!!” M screamed one last time.

~^~

The ringing in his ears was bad. The fact that he wasn’t dead was a little bit more positive. All of that was balanced with the fact that he was hanging upside-down and very likely to hurt a lot when the rest of his brain turned back on. Silva had not warned him fast enough about the van roaring into the intersection, and if Bond were the vengeful type… well, even now he was considering giving Silva a good pounding in thanks for that. If Silva thought he was a technological god, he’d bloody well start acting like one…!

Even though his head was still spinning from the impact, Bond’s instincts sparked sharply to life like some sort of sixth-sense – some gun-sensing sixth-sense. Feeling blood trickling into his hairline from glass that was littered everywhere like razor-sharp glitter, Bond turned his head even as the wicked muzzle of a gun hove suddenly into view.

“I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but if you’re not dead, get out,” a gravely voice ordered without mercy.

Realizing that now was not the best time to test whether he had a faster draw than this man had a trigger finger, Bond walled off his expression and slowly, carefully reached to undo his seatbelt. He didn’t even remember putting it on, but was glad he had.

The low voice stopped him again, “Take out your gun first.” The man didn’t sound afraid, only sensibly wary – a lethal combination. “We know you have one.”

One does not argue with a gun in his face. Bond reached as slowly and un-threateningly as he could to take his gun from its holster and toss it out of the car’s broken window. It felt as though he were ripping off and tossing away an arm, but 007 kept his face neutral. Then he loosened himself from his seatbelt, because he couldn’t stand being upside-down any longer – he could stand having a gun in his face, but not hanging upside-down like a vehicular piñata. 007 grunted and snarled through his teeth as he unceremoniously fell to the glass-carpeted ceiling, but didn’t argue or even tense as he felt hands reach in to drag him out into the open. Bond knew the importance of patience, and had noted that no one had tried to shoot him yet. At the worst, they would wait until they saw his face and learned his name before they plugged him full of bullets. So, with a flat, almost calm expression, one of the best agents MI6 had to offer was yanked to his feet outside of his wrecked car.

The man he faced had hair shaved so close to his head that there was no way to tell what color it was, but his eyes were as dark as lead and just as dispassionately cold. He was as brutish as his voice had suggested, with a thick build that held more than a little muscle. Square jaw set and dark eyes half-lidded, he looked Bond over.

Bond noted, his own eyes veiled and unreadable, that no recognition blossomed in the other man’s eyes. Thus far, the infamous James Bond was nameless, which was as much a novelty as it was an unexpected gift.

“Who are you?” the expected question came.

Without having to check, Bond knew that he could have thrown off the two men latched onto either arm. The car accident had shaken him up and given him some inventive bruises and a cut on the side of his face that looked worse than it was, but beneath that was a mass of honed muscle that still felt like it would work quite well. The man in front of him with the still-ready gun was another matter. Bond decided to bide his time so long as it didn’t look as though his death was imminent.

That didn’t mean he was going to be obsequious or polite, however. “Why would I tell you?”

The other man’s eyes narrowed to dark, dangerous slits, and Bond – looking back unblinkingly – saw how much the man wanted to punch him for the remark. Something in Bond’s cool stance and easy expression, however, had the man pausing.

“All right,” he said slowly, the words like rocks coming out of his mouth after some consideration, “If you want to keep clammed-up, then I imagine you must have a reason. However, you also must have had a reason for following those friends of mine.” He canted his head beyond Bond, and 007 turned his head carefully to see that the van he’d been chasing had stopped. No one had gotten out, but another beefy giant had leaned his head out of the passenger-side window and was glaring. The hacker was not in evidence, but Bond knew he was there. He hadn’t very well had a chance to jump free of the van and run away, so Bond shrugged philosophically to himself and decided to stay where he was. M would kill him for getting into trouble like this, but from the silence in his ear, the earpiece had received damage and wouldn’t be channeling the old woman’s rage any time soon.

At ease with this plan, Bond flicked his ice-cold blue eyes back to his interrogator, who was finishing, “I’ll leave it to my boss to decide what to do with you. Maybe he’ll just kill you himself, but that’s on him. Now, you gonna come quietly?”

By the vicious look in the man’s eyes, any interest in not going quietly would be met with enthusiastic violence. Perhaps they didn’t want to make the decision to kill Bond, but it was a fine line. Deciding that he’d rather risk getting shot later – and possibly find out a lot more about the attack on MI6 along the way – than encouraging someone to shoot him now, Bond simply blinked and replied in smooth, agreeable tones, “I’ll play nice so long as you do.”

It was a point on Bond’s side that his relaxed, unafraid attitude – which was entirely sincere, because Bond had faced far scarier foes than this – seemed to be unsettling his captors. Therefore he was irked but not surprised when the man in front of him decided to order, “Fine. Tie him up.”

While Bond prepared himself to deal with that, things got almost comedic. Apparently Silva’s suspicions about this group not being strictly professional was true, because one of the men guarding James jumped and shot back, “With what?”

007 resisted the urge to chortle. If he hadn’t been stuck for hours in a blacked-out MI6 headquarters, he wouldn’t have believed these people to be proficient at crime all.

“You’ve got a belt, don’t you?” was the steely retort that no one argued with. It was with almost timid apology and embarrassment that one man lost his belt and then used it to bind 007’s arms in front of him. Through it all, Bond offered only token resistance, and then only out of a sense of dignity for everyone. It earned Bond a blow to the stomach, but he felt that his captors felt a little bit better, and the punch hardly even hurt. All in all: worth it. The stone-eyed man with the shaved head seemed more relaxed now that Bond was acting more like a normal captive, and Bond had learned that at least one of his foes punched like a girl – and not like Moneypenny either. Now there was a girl to fear…

So, still as cool as a cat, Bond allowed himself to be shoved into the second van. The first, after a brief exchange with the stone-eyed brute, had already pulled away. While secretly testing the tightness of his restraints, Bond pretended to be clumsy and even did a passable impression of nervousness. He wasn’t much of an actor so far as that went, but apparently he wasn’t considered much of a threat after the car-accident and losing his gun. The fact that Bond was very muscular and athletic was downplayed by the fact that their leader was bigger.

What they didn’t realize was that Bond was still more dangerous.

In fact, the only shadow in Bond’s eyes came not from unease or fear as he was walked to the second van, but quiet grief as he walked past the downed Ferrari. A grand car had been lost this day. Bond would probably shoot somebody before this was all over if only because of that.

~^~

It was a brief drive, brief enough that Bond catalogued every turn they took almost without thinking. He’d be able to find his way back to the downed Ferrari at least, poor car. From there…well, he’d been driving pretty fast…MI6 would have to help him from there. He wondered how worried M was and how much trouble Silva was in for not giving James a head’s-up before he was T-boned. He also wondered with the faintest tremors of unease just how hard it would be to extricate himself from this situation… He figured he could do it, and therefore wasn’t even remotely afraid, but there were enough people with guns to make the future look annoyingly difficult. Bond was a survivalist and a pragmatist, and therefore could see that he’d have to watch his step if he wanted to return to MI6 alive and intact.

Once he was hustled out of the van, Bond quickly took in the situation again, focusing on that instead of the growing ache from bruised muscles he was getting. They were in a pretty rundown area, and the building they were herding him towards had definitely seen better days. It looked like one of those forgotten buildings you see on TV or read about where only squatters live, or businesses of ill-repute.

Bond figured that this one housed the latter category. After all, these men with him – while not particularly upper-class criminals in his books – were of ill-repute. Destroying a car so beautiful obviously put one in that category.

Obviously not afraid of anyone reporting them for kidnapping and restraining people at gunpoint, the men around Bond took him from the van to the building with their weapons quite obviously pointed at him. That told him exactly who was armed with what, and that the skinny fellow on his left had no distance judgment to speak of: the gun was so close that Bond could have grabbed it away, and planned on doing that later if the need arose. Mostly, it was just the steel-eyed man that worried Bond. The fellow had a level of basic viciousness about him that was only rivaled by the aura of efficiency that would make him truly dangerous in a fight. If anyone shot Bond right between the eyes, it would be him.

Inside was no better than outside, and Bond still hadn’t learned anything useful. If nothing else, though, he was bemused by these mean living quarters. This was apparently the group that had not only hacked MI6 but shut it down – twice – and yet they looked more like small-time criminals. Bond didn’t understand, and tried to keep the troubled, questioning frown off his face as he continued to walk forward on command.

“Wait here,” the brutish man grunted, once again taking one look at Bond’s unnaturally cool eyes and deciding not to hit him. He did dismiss him pretty easily, however, which was foolish. “The boss has other things to deal with than some nosy guy with a fast car. He’ll get you to explain yourself when he has time.”

Bond lifted one eyebrow to show what he thought of that little plan, but otherwise didn’t speak. Antagonizing captors rarely went well, even if you were a top agent of MI6.

Nonetheless, Bond was temporarily ignored. He still had three thugs keeping an eye on him, but at least one still thought his gun only worked from a foot away, and all were content to just stand and wait for further orders. That was good. Bond could live with that. He was developing enough aches from the car-crash that a bit of stillness felt good, and the idea of rushing headlong into a fight honestly didn’t appeal right now.

Besides, from here, he could see into the adjoining room where a real meat-loaf of a man came striding in, and it didn’t take MI6 training to see that this fellow was higher up on the food-chain than the others. It was one thing Bond had learned: the big dog got the food. This man was big. He was likely six-foot and bigger even than the dark-eyed bruiser who had initially ordered Bond out of his car. Some of that size was muscle, but a lot of it was padded over with fat, another sign of someone powerful enough that he didn’t have to fight his own battles anymore. Still, there was a heavyweight boxer’s frame under that, and Bond made a mental note to watch out for this man.

“Bring him in here!!” the man bellowed, but he wasn’t looking Bond’s way – in fact, he didn’t even appear to have noticed that anyone new was there. He was looking a different direction.

Suddenly a much smaller, much skinnier figure was thrown bodily into the room to sprawl on hands and knees. Bond’s heart immediately jumped in his chest, recognizing the hacker from the coffee shop and the subsequent chase-scene. Still as rough-looking as before and now cowering on the floor, he hardly looked like the master of hackers that had beat Silva at what Silva thought of as his own game. Tousled, wavy hair fell over large, bespectacled eyes that were staring up at his boss with panicky fear. Also in those eyes, however, was the mindless, helpless hunger of an addict for a fix.

Suddenly Bond had a new opinion on the ‘big dog’ of this little crime ring, and it made his eyes grow quietly, coldly vicious. All of that muscle was just genetics at work, earned and honed on nothing more than beating up one-hundred-pound druggies who didn’t have the will to run away or the muscle-mass left to defend themselves. Any respect Bond might have warily had for the huge man disappeared to be replaced by disgust and distaste.

“You said you could do it, you little maggot!” the huge man yelled, and the hacker cowered.

Although there was no way he was over one-hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, the young man pulled himself together enough to resist the accusations. “I did do it, Caesar!” he defended himself in a voice thin with fright, “I did! It just… just t-took a little longer than I thought!”

“You’re gonna have to do better than this, Q,” the bear of a man growled back with menace. As he stood over the hacker, the size difference seemed to multiply, and the skin-and-bones druggy bowed his head towards the floor while he quaked. Bond didn’t know if it was the nickname that softened him towards the hacker just a bit, but he found some of his anger towards the fellow drain away. MI6 could be as furious as they wanted to be, but Bond let any thought of vengeance dissipate in his mind. There was simply very little to be angry at.

Caesar’s last sentence had driven the little hacker nearly into a panic, and suddenly his shivers looked more like detox tremors as he looked up at his boss wildly. “Caesar… Caesar, please. I did it. I did what you asked – it wasn’t… wasn’t even all that difficult…!”

One of Bond’s eyebrows lifted again as he shifted against the hands still holding his arms. Not that difficult? This little scarecrow had ripped apart MI6’s firewalls like a dog shaking apart a chew-toy, and he wasn’t even all that healthy-looking.

Now, however, Bond felt his stomach tighten uncomfortably as the hacker went from fearful arguing to begging. Q was already pathetic-looking: wasted away, disheveled, and small enough to be somebody’s cat. Now he went even lower as, out of obvious desperation, he began pleading shamelessly on the floor, “Come on, Caesar… please. Please, I did what you said. You’ve got the numbers you want – I did it! So please, please, Caesar, I need some…”

Bond had long since figured out the leash that held Q. Whomever Q had been before, whatever life he had led or family he’d originally been born into, he’d fallen into the greedy hands of addiction. Those were the kind of hands that didn’t let go, or if they did, they tore you up so badly along the way that you usually stopped trying halfway out and never wanted to try again. He could have been hooked on any number of things; Bond was not an expert on the vast array of addictive substances. Alcohol he knew, but the draw that presented to him was barely a shadow compared to the abject need painted all over the hacker’s face right now. Suddenly, pity was all Bond felt as he made his face hard and unreadable, an unforgiving stone mask.

The big fellow, Caesar (no doubt an assumed name, although Bond wondered if the man knew about the demise of his namesake), moved to nudge his hacker with his boot, but Q was clearly smart and knew what that meant. Still shaky and wild with need, he nonetheless scrambled backwards on the floor out of reach and almost out of Bond’s line of sight. He could see Caesar’s lip curl, however, in a mix between a snarl and a derisive sneer. “You’re useless, Q, but you’re a sight to see when you’re begging,” he teased cruelly, and Bond craned his head just a barest fraction, catching the brief flash of shame on the hacker’s gaunt face as he ducked his messy head. He didn’t argue, however, and in fact Bond could see him viciously biting his lower lip to keep quiet. It paid off, because Caesar relaxed his heavy frame a bit and looked at someone beyond Q. “Go get him what he wants. He’s done good work for us, so we may as well give him what he wants, right, Q?”

The brown-haired head remained ducked, but the shaking increased. Either Q backed out of sight or he was lightly pulled, because he slipped out of Bond’s range of vision.

Then the hard-eyed man that had overseen Bond’s capture stepped forward, and changed the subject. “Caesar, sir, we were tailed on our way back. Q here didn’t quite get out of the coffee shop fast enough.”

‘Huh,’ Bond grunted to himself, preparing for the dangerous dance that he knew was coming, ‘My turn.’ Conscious of what appearances could do in tight situations, he schooled his expression as best he could to show a mix of resentment and wariness. Being Bond, however, what showed in the depths of his sapphire-blue eyes was an ocean of self-control.

As the thug kept talking, Bond was urged forward, and only pulled back the slightest bit against the hands that pushed him. He’d deduced long since that he could get out of the belt wrapped around his wrists in mere minutes. As he crossed the boundary into the other room, he saw that the hacker was still there: sitting now in the corner, he watched with large eyes as Bond – whom he clearly recognized from their little run down the streets – entered. The glasses made the young man’s eyes looked even larger as he stared, and his awkward, curled posture made him look smaller. Bond’s quick eyes noted how the druggy was still sweaty and shaky, meaning no one had fetched him his fix yet. He was just a forgotten spectator now as Bond faced up to the consequences of his actions, much as the young hacker seemed to be a spectator in everything: no choice, no control, as he was forced to stand on the outside of his own life and watch others call the shots.

By contrast, Bond appeared very much in control, even though he was restrained and surrounded by people who were probably even now considering where to dispose of his body. They had another thing coming if they thought that would be easy. Acutely aware of Q’s eyes watching him, Bond began to put on a show.

Caesar started the little game. “Thanks, Burns,” he dismissed the steely-eyed man first, which Bond counted as a point for his side already: the only man that he truly considered dangerous was now backing off, if not actually leaving. Maybe Burns saw a fellow predator in Bond’s eyes and was leery of leaving their prisoner unattended. Then Caesar’s sharp, mean eyes fixed back on Bond again, measuring and dissecting like hands greedy to get what they want. “Well now, who would you be then?”

Yep, no doubt about it: Caesar had cut his teeth on those smaller than himself, becoming a first-class bully by pushing around helpless figures like Q. If Caesar were a real fighter, he would realize that bustling his way into Bond’s personal space was a dangerous proposition. At this range, Bond could break his ribs and brush his windpipe without barely having to extend his arms. Of course, since this man outweighed him, there was the danger of Bond being crushed, but right now Bond was balanced easily on the pads of his feet and ready to move.

If Caesar had ever been a dangerous man, he’d have recognized the same in Bond at a glance.

“I’m nobody,” Bond lied easily, not in the least perturbed. Oddly enough, he felt as though he were showing off, showing off to an audience of one, because he found he didn’t care what anyone else though besides Q. The hacker was still watching him with something between fear and bewilderment. Still keeping his half-lidded eyes calmly on Q’s handler, Bond went on and spun a story that had come to him earlier, “But my boss Jimmie Thrasher you might know.”

The name had been picked strategically: it was the name of the leader of a crime ring that MI6 had dealt with sparingly in the past, but never anything major. Thrasher’s group was into smuggling and the like, and Bond figured that they’d be a big enough name to catch Caesar’s attention but not so upper-echelon as to sound absurd.

At first, Bond wasn’t sure it would work. Sure, no one had recognized him as James Bond of MI6, but that didn’t mean he fit the bill for a smuggler’s crony.

Had anyone at MI6 been asked their opinion, however, they’d have been far from uncertain – they’d have said quite quickly that Bond was fit to play the character. The same dangerous aura and razor-keen eyes that he’d developed as a 00-agent made him look perfectly like a very lethal criminal as well, given the right circumstances. Bond was all muscle and edges and carefully measured tension, and there wasn’t even a flicker of doubt before Caesar’s eyes widened a bit.

‘Bait taken,’ Bond congratulated himself.

“So…Jimmie Thrasher?” Caesar repeated, looking part nervous and part interested. That was good, considering the lie Bond planned to spin for him in order to keep a bullet out of his head. “How does that explain you chasing my boys here?”

More lies, touched with truth, rolled out of Bond’s mouth, “Word’s out that you’ve got a top-class hacker.” He shrugged as if his hands weren’t sloppily bound up by another man’s belt. “My boss wanted to learn more. Said he heard you were getting into all sort of trouble with him.” He nodded Q’s way belatedly, but his brief glance was met by a nervous flinch. Then the hacker was turning the other way as a slim woman in ill-fitting clothes walked in with a needle in hand. Fascinated and unsettled despite himself, Bond watched out of the corner of his eye. He could see the addicted hacker’s face, see the emotions war in the large, bespectacled eyes: desperate hunger, ‘What-am-I-doing?’ shock, fear, and finally self-loathing. That last must have bitten down on Q, because suddenly the druggy was pulling back and gasping, “No!” even as the woman – another man stepping over to help – grabbed onto the hacker’s arms to hold him still. Q’s struggles were brief and uncoordinated, and he gave in with sick desire poisoning his eyes as he watched the needle sink into the crook of his arm.

Q whimpered softly and then those sharp eyes glazed over and he collapsed into a heap against the wall, breathing softly but otherwise nothing but a discarded doll.

It was surprisingly hard to tear his eyes away, and not because he’d never seen a drug-addict shoot up before. In his line of business, Bond had been all over the world in the company of all kinds of people, from the beautiful to the unsavory. Somehow, though, seeing the hacker now…maybe it was just because it was not what he’d expected. He’d come hunting a computer genius of astounding skill and technological power, and instead had found a wasted, poorly-cared-for drug-addict following the whims of a brute for no other reason than to get the drugs he wanted. It was like hearing fairy tales as a child and then having the gauzy, beautiful veneer removed by a scalpel when reality set in.

Narrowing his eyes and turning his brain belatedly back to business, Bond continued to convince Caesar not to shoot him. “So my boss sent me to find you, just as a friendly hello, see?” Bond even pulled out a smile, a disarming expression for a man who could kill faster than most people could blink.

Predictably, there were some holes in Bond’s story, so he wasn’t surprised by the suspicious look that started to flicker across the big criminal’s face. “Kinda funny way to say hello,” Caesar observed.

Bond took a gamble, rising his bound wrists to touch fingers to the blood drying on his face. “I’d imagine that Thrasher will think that this was a pretty funny way to say hello back.”

He was rewarded as the suspicion was tempered again by nervousness. If nothing else, Bond had their attention now, and they were wary of hurting him until they could either confirm or deny his story. That was all Bond wanted. He didn’t plan to be here long enough for his lies to come back and bite him.

“You must be a pretty brave man to come after me and my business with a gun,” Caesar observed.

Bond decided not to mention that he actually still had one strapped to his ankle, along with a knife. It was one of the benefits of dealing with small-time criminals.

“You know, for gall like that, I should put a bullet through your skull right now,” was the threat that followed. It was expected, so Bond did nothing more than set his jaw and narrow his eyes as he felt Burns come up and press the muzzle of his gun to Bond’s temple. The fact that Burns wasn’t threatening him from a safe distance told Bond that this was all for show more than anything, however.

After all, what was the point in putting a long-range weapon so close? The only purpose it served was to intimidate.

Too bad 00-agents didn’t get intimidated easily. Still, Bond could fake it just a little if it made Caesar and his minions feel better.

Breaking the tense atmosphere was the sound of Q in the background, whimpering thinly in his throat. Despite his best efforts, it had Bond turning his head, but at least no one seemed to care if his attention drifted. It probably seemed that he was trying to turn his head away from the gun pressed against his hair.

Still in his corner, forgotten now that he’d served his purpose, it was hard to tell if the master hacker was disturbed or if he really comprehended what was going on at all. Bond wasn’t sure what to do about the other man now that he’d found him. Some people would probably feel safer if Bond simply took the gun from Burns and shot Q with it, because obviously Q was quite dangerous. Even if he weren’t dependent on Caesar’s drugs, the thin young man had a mind ten times as dangerous as anyone Bond could imagine. It was like finding a cunning wolf and then realizing that, on top of it all, it was rabid. Yes, the majority of MI6 would stand behind Bond’s decision if he decided to kill Q.

Bond was still pondering all of these unexpected twists when Caesar continued talking, still pompous because he was used to dealing with people already beaten down by the world. “Well, we’ll just see how this turns out. For now, you get lucky.” A meaty hand shoved his shoulder to spin him around, and it took a lot of self-control for Bond not to reflexively lash back and break the man’s wrist regardless of his restraints. Instead, he growled quietly and let himself be turned around and propelled out of the room as Caesar finished, “You get to stick around as my guest until I find out whether you’re really just ‘saying hello’ from Jimmie Thrasher.”

‘You’ll find out I’m lying,’ Bond easily admitted to himself. In fact, depending on what connections Caesar and his small-time gang had, they could find out rather quickly.

By that time, however, Bond planned to find a little time of his own to talk to a certain hacker. From there on out…

Bond glanced at Q as he walked past him, seeing the narrow chest rise and fall, the nearly-closed eyes still red-rimmed but now glazed over and foggy with whatever was suffusing his system. Honestly, even if Bond were not a 00-agent, killing Q would be easy. Even killing him by accident would be easy, because he was as delicate as spun glass, all skin and bones and that mop of hair. And right now he was helpless.

He’d think about all of that later.

 


	3. A Hacker Named Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond has finally tracked down the person that shut the lights out in MI6. 
> 
> I would say more, but am afraid I'd ruin the surprise! (But be prepared for lots of Q-ness!!!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter - hope you enjoy!

It was probably a spare bedroom, but lacked any furniture. What mattered was that it was in no way built to contain a determined 00-agent. Ten minutes after having been put in there, Bond had his hands free, his spare gun in his hand, and was ready to do some exploring – and that was only because he’d waited seven minutes to be sure no one was going to come back in right away. It was getting later in the day by now, and he figured that even villains had to sleep or at least wind down as the sun sunk low.

There was the sound of breathing from outside the door and the scuff of a shoe moving. One guard. Good – anything less and Bond would have gotten nervous. This building had once been an apartment building of some kind, likely, so the lock was on Bond’s side, and with practiced care he threw it into the open position. Then he flicked off the dim ceiling bulb and stood just out of view to nudge the door open with his shoe.

Curiosity killed the cat. Bond just waited, breathing in and out calmly in the shadowy room, and almost immediately heard the guard swear as he noticed the ajar door. When the fellow came to check it out, Bond just had to wait like the blade of a guillotine for the man to stretch his neck out. Not wanting to make a lot of noise, Bond simply used his gun like improvised brass knuckles, and before his guard knew what was happening, he’d practically walked into a blow to the throat. It was a brief scuffle after that, with the only sounds being the faint noise of bodies moving, blows falling, and the guard trying to force air into his windpipe. Bare moments later, and Bond had the man pinned to the wall just inside the door, a hand on the man’s neck making sure that he couldn’t get enough air to shout.

And outside…silence. That meant that everyone still thought he was mostly harmless then.

He’d see how long that lasted.

Bond still ached from being tossed around during the car crash, and could feel the dried blood on his face with even the faintest twitch of his expression, but all in all, he’d had much worse. That made him lethally efficient as he looked on impassively at the weakly struggling guard. “Where is he? The hacker?” he demanded in a low, dangerously calm voice. Pressing his gun to the man’s belly – promising a slow, painful death – helped the answer along.

Once he got the directions he needed, Bond tightened his grip on the man’s throat until all the thrashing stopped. It was possible that the man was dead, but Bond only cared that he was silent and unconscious, so he let him slide to the floor without further ado. He might have tried to get more information out of him, but most of Bond’s skill-set wasn’t in the torture department, and time was of the essence anyway. Ears keen, gun ready, and body thrumming beneath the veneer of deceptive calm, 007 moved out into the hall to begin his search. He’d been told to get the hacker, and that was just what he was doing to do.

With the outside world calming down in the presence of oncoming night, the building was quieter. It was that dusky grey time of the evening when nothing is clear: when the daylight creatures are finding the world too dark and the strictly nighttime folk are still blinking off a daytime of sleep.

The perfect time for a spy. Bond had no problem with shadows.

Which was not to say he did not meet up with people. The first person that came upon the escaped agent, in fact, had a whole second to gape at him before Bond’s fist connected with his jaw and spun him a quarter turn before dropping him bonelessly to the floor. Unperturbed, Bond stepped smoothly over him and kept on going. Bond had been told often enough – by M, Silva, and just about anyone else that had the time, breath, and inclination – that he wasn’t the sneakiest of agents, but he generally shrugged off the thinly-veiled insult, because he still got the job done. Everyone else had to admit, that what Bond lacked in elusiveness he made up for in explosive, enemy-silencing attacks. Now Bond just had to make sure that he got out of here before anyone started discovering bodies.

The hacker, Q, was apparently still sleeping off his fix in a random room on the building’s second floor. Bond idly wondered if that were a strategic position: high enough up that he couldn’t just walk out, but low enough that a jump out of the window would, at the very least, be intimidating. For a person as wasted away and thin as Q was, it would probably end in broken bones. Then again, since Q actually seemed to be the brainiest one in this operation, it was entirely possible that the room had simply been the most convenient place to dump the druggy when he wasn’t being used to break into MI6.

Bond could actually see the room from here: he was standing in a hallway with subpar lighting and doors all the way down it, just another string of flats if you ignored the bareness of the hall and the general look (and smell) of decay about the place. Cockroaches and mice probably had their own room and board, although there were voices to be heard that proved the presence of human occupants. The voices were coming from behind a closed door between Bond and his intended target, and he reduced his pace to a slow, rolling crawl. Like a large, sleek cat, Bond proceeded with oiled movements until he was right before the door. The conversation didn’t stop, meaning no one had realized that a predator was stalking outside their door.

It was Caesar talking, and Burns. Despite his focus on his task, Bond found himself listening, distracted as the drift of their words caught in the shell of his ear.

“-Good catch, Burns. That Q might look like something the cat dragged in-”

“No wonder,” another voice interrupted with a chortle, “Considering what all he’s got in his system.”

There was general, crude laughter at the hacker’s expense, but it was what came next that had Bond freezing and listening tensely. Caesar was continuing, “-But that little present we had him leave in MI6’s systems ought to be a thing of beauty!” Bond was not easily unsettled, but suddenly swallowed, feeling the need for immediate and desperate action burn him from the bones out. Caesar just kept talking: “Just think: with them down for the count and no one to watch us – and with us having Q? – we’ll be richer than kings by tomorrow!”

Bond had heard enough. Perhaps Silva had picked it up already, but there was a bug in MI6’s systems, and if it hadn’t started causing devastation yet, it sounded like it would soon. It didn’t take a computer genius to put two and two together and realize that things were about to get a lot worse.

Moving forward – still silent, but now swift, too – Bond mutely cursed his earpiece for the first time. Never had there been a worse opportunity for his link to MI6 to be silent. He’d had a phone, but not anymore; he vaguely remembered leaving it next to the laptop, all at the coffee shop earlier that day. Normally, this level of anonymity would have been heaven, but right now Bond would have paid an arm and a leg just to have M gabbing in his ear and listening back.

Bond needed to reach MI6.

Still in motion, Bond ticked off possibilities in his head quickly, curling his lip at most. Going through regular channels took ages – even with a code, it sometimes took awhile to get to M while using a random phone. And besides, Bond didn’t know if this bug Q had made was destroying things already. It was entirely possible that Caesar and his lucky lot would be rich by morning, but for that to happen, MI6 would have to be breathing its last by…?

It didn’t bear thinking about. Bond needed to reach MI6 now, and he’d just thought of a way to do that and possibly satisfy the parameters of his mission all at once. Somewhere in the middle of his thinking, he’d reached the room that this devastating hacker was supposed to be in.

The door wasn’t even closed. Q was in it, though, and very far from alert and able. Bond, like a large wraith drifting in through the door, glided in on smooth footsteps and toed the door shut behind him. With only one valiantly dying bulb casting light from the ceiling, the room was a dark mass of browns and blacks and the faintest, eerie touch of ochre, as if Bond’s very presence had given the room a cast of red. There was a small bureau next to the bed, with all of its drawers long since pulled out and lost, and beyond that there was nothing – the bare essentials, and they were hardly worth the time to even catalogue. What Bond’s cold, emotionless eyes fixed on was the familiar figure splayed on his side on the small bed amidst the threadbare sheets, breathing shallowly and a little bit too fast, as if his brain and his lungs were no longer on speaking terms now that he was sleeping.

He wouldn’t be sleeping for much longer.

Necessity driving him and making him fast and efficient, Bond came around the bed behind Q. With no more hesitation than a normal man would show in throwing on a coat, he reached out with one hand to grab the thin figure’s shoulder while the other hand pressed the muzzle of his gun snugly behind Q’s ear.

It was a sign of just how far away the drugs had taken him that Q’s eyes opened only slowly, and no alarm registered in them. Then again, he hadn’t seen Bond or the gun yet. By pulling back on the wasted shoulder while at the same time pressing forward with the gun, Bond forced him to take notice. “Q, is it?” he asked in a low, impatient growl, a bare ripple in the ocean of his calm.

The hacker was coming about with pathetic slowness, and only hissed in a breath to show that he’d registered any of this. Those large, reddened eyes flicked back beneath crooked glasses to take Bond in, and only then did panic zip through him like a sluggish electrocution. As soon as the wiry muscles began to tense beneath the hacker’s pale skin, however, Bond tightened his grip and pressed the gun’s muzzle in enough to leave an imprint. “None of that,” he warned in a low tone that wouldn’t have carried further than Q’s ears.

The druggy was shaking now, but not pleading for his life or crying in mortification. He seemed to have quickly realized that his attacker was stronger than him, because the fighting stopped; his arm was jerked back uncomfortably, and he flexed his fingers, the only sign now of his unease. The rest of him, so frail and spindly against the ratty bed, simply looked tired. His eyes looked straight ahead, but that might have been because the drugs in his system made it hard to focus.

Bond needed him to focus, but in that moment, his determination faltered ever-so-faintly. Coming into the room, there had been a distinct possibility of him shooting Q and then figuring out everything else from there; just as likely, he’d had a second plan that did not involve killing, at least until he’d gotten the hacker to do what he wanted. Chances were still high that he would have killed Q afterwards, because the young man was so eminently dangerous.

Now, however, faced with a captive that didn’t fight and didn’t even seem able to stay surprised at Bond’s arrival, the 00-agent paused and considered. His expression stayed aloof and cool, but beneath that his mind worked quite quickly.

“Are you-?” the hacker tried his best to ask clearly, but at the same time also tried to get up. It was an instinctive thing, but so was Bond’s response, which was to twist Q's arm back further and force him down onto the bed again. The gun was just for show – hadn’t he given a mental lecture on the uselessness of holding guns to people’s heads unless you wanted pure intimidation? – but Q still got the idea and subsided with a frustrated, tired groan. Still looking forward with half-glazed eyes and otherwise very little expression, he nonetheless continued stoically, “Are you going to shoot me?”

The voice was quiet – a sensible gesture, considering that a louder tone might have triggered a reaction from an attacker. Similarly, the way Q avoided eye-contact and (mostly) held still proved that the druggy knew a thing or two about avoiding people’s anger. The cold veil over Bond’s eyes fell back a bit in sympathy as his highly-trained senses caught the tremor of pure fear beneath the steady tone, and the way the addict’s eyes seemed to _wish_ they could focus. Still, Q clearly thought he was going to die. Briefly, the hacker’s eyes closed, and then opened with a ragged breath as a little bit more fear slipped free. His legs shifted, but it was the boneless twitch of a rabbit half-starved in a snare, and clearly the young man realized that he wasn’t getting out of this.

But Bond wasn’t going to act as expected.

“Do something for me, and I won’t shoot you.”

Bleary eyes blinked in surprise and finally gave in to the temptation to look back at the larger, blonde-haired man, although that just made it all the more obvious that Q was too drugged-up to focus. Bond continued to hold him at a debilitating angle that made it very clear which of them had control of the situation, a position that easily kept Q from moving.

Time was running out. Bond was making up his plan as he went, and his last spark of inspiration had been, not to kill Q, but to take him with him. That idea fluttered and died almost as soon as he looked down, however, seeing just how ludicrous an idea that was: Q could barely function lying on the bed, much less standing and then running as Bond dragged him out of here, likely under a hail of bullets. No, Q would definitely be going nowhere.

But Bond still didn’t want to shoot him.

The 00-agent slowly but smoothly holstered his gun, using that free hand to take the earpiece out of his ear while still otherwise keeping Q pinned. “I’m a fair man,” Bond decided to say solemnly, “when I can be.” It wasn’t exactly the most calming thing to say, especially when he was still holding onto the other man in such a compromising way. Then again, Bond doubted he’d ever be lauded for being calming. Nonetheless, he felt it needed to be said. Very rarely did Bond get a chance to either explain himself or to be fair. The hacker in his grasp tried to squirm away when Bond’s free hand hovered into view in front of his face, but even if Q hadn’t been drugged half out of his mind, Bond could have overpowered him. There simply wasn’t any meat on Q’s bones, and calling him healthy would have been flat-out lying.

“See this?” Bond asked, keeping his voice steady and flat and serious. The shadowed, bloodshot eyes focused with effort, peering out past the tangle of overlong brown hair. “I need you to fix this.”

Those eyes shot up at Bond, startled and surprised now. It was difficult to tell what color they were with all of the redness around the iris, but Bond was sadly amused to note that the glasses were new. They were the only thing new or well-kept about Q. ‘ _You can drug your hacker and treat him like a hamster in a shoebox, but you can’t let him go blind_ ,’ he joked mirthlessly. He focused on the here-and-now again when he heard the addict manage to choke out, bewildered, “Why?”

Time was running out. Bond shifted his grip and hauled the smaller man unceremoniously into a sitting position. It was very much like moving a scarecrow, and Q was so dizzy upon reaching an upright position that he would have tipped over if Bond hadn’t still had a grip on him. Oh well – at least that meant he wasn’t going to try and run off anytime soon. Bond touched a hand to the gun at his side as a reminder and watched Q’s bleary, frightened eyes follow it.

However, that was the only added threat he gave, instead getting right to the point with the drug addict, “This got broken in that little tumble I took with my car. Since I can’t see the damage, I’m willing to bet it’s something small – something fixable.” He’d had one palm holding the earpiece under Q’s nose and the fingers of his other hand holding the hacker upright with fingers fisted in his shirt-collar. Now he twisted the latter grip and wedged his knuckles under the smaller young man’s pale chin, forcing him to look up. Bond could feel Q swallow, a delicate flex of muscles against the backs of his fingers. This close, it was possible that Q’s eyes were brown or hazel, and filled with helpless, soul-eating panic that he couldn’t do anything about. A thin, long-fingered hand lifted as if to pull Bond’s hand away, but stopped, clearly afraid of what repercussions even that small gesture might bring. Despite being physically dependent on Caesar and his drugs, Q was scared out of his wits and trained to assume that anything could get him beaten up.

Bond told himself that that was not why he was going easy on him. Instead, he told himself that it was just a rare moment of fairness, or more likely a very common pragmatic moment – he didn’t have time to rough up a hacker half his size. Dealing with him nicely would probably get him better results, and faster. “I’m in a hurry, but I’m guessing that your knowledge of computers should extend to an earpiece like this,” he went on steadily, for all the world as calm as a windless day, even if his eyes were uncompromising, “You have five minutes to make it work again.” And with that he dropped the piece of technology into Q’s hand. After another moment’s consideration, he also let go of his shirt-collar, but was fully prepared for the smaller man to collapse.

He didn’t. It was a minor miracle. Sitting in an awkward, splayed kneeling position, the hacker swayed and very nearly toppled forward before finding some shred of balance. His muscles shuddered and twitched still, no doubt an effect of whatever he’d been injected with – his drug, his high. Now, though, he was focusing on the minute piece of technology cupped in his hands, clearly trying to pull his massive brain together. “You…” he dared to speak up, although the clumsiness of his tongue clearly frustrated him. When the words refused to come clearly, Q closed his eyes and lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses and making them more crooked. When the look of frustrated self-loathing faded from his face, he noticed his glasses were askew and straightened them before finishing in a breathy, weak voice, “You will kill me when I get this done. I know how this works. This is my only use to you, and then… then…” Q actually mewled, defeated by the fogginess of his own brain that had to be killing him, no matter how much his body craved the feeling in his veins. He drooped, sagging so that he looked like a spindly winter tree bent over with snow; his ribcage could be traced beneath his unkempt shirt. “Then I am only a threat,” he finished shakily. Maybe he tried to get up… it was hard to tell. All that Bond saw was that he swayed where he sat/knelt and had to brace a hand against the messy bed to keep from pitching off it. After that, he seemed to shrink beneath the knowledge that he was too high to go anywhere.

The argument was valid, really. Bond had to admit that: normally, that would have been perfectly true. Right now, though… the same instincts that had had him holding his shot before had him holding back again. He said as much, figuring it was as good an excuse as any, “I could have shot you outside of your van.”

“Why didn’t you?” the hacker looked up at him and asked.

Bond didn’t know, so he picked a lie that was close to the truth, “Because I’m fair, remember?”

For a long moment, Q just stared at him, and Bond worried that maybe he was going into some delayed reaction to the drugs in him, like an overdose or something. Then Q barked out something that sounded like it might once have been the bastard son of a laugh. His lips tried to twitch up into an incredulous smile but couldn’t figure out how. His clouded eyes just kept staring. “Fair…” he repeated, remarkably softly, and Bond wondered if there might also be some madness in that genius brain. Before he could grow tense, however, Q abruptly dropped his head, and his fingers suddenly rested upon the earpiece with more purpose. Although still clearly seeing the world through a debilitating, drug-induced haze, Q seemed to focus as never before. He turned the small blob of wiring and metal in surprisingly agile fingers, fingers that Bond had to admire: truly, they were hands built to make keys dance, perhaps piano keys once, computer keys now.

The hacker asked in a voice that almost hid the fear that remained, “Um… might you have a paperclip? Or something of the like?” He kept his head down and his posture minimized, and Bond wasn’t fool enough to miss the tension that lined his shoulders and his spine. If Bond got sick of him asking questions or thought he was stalling, Bond could crush him, and the addict obviously was aware of that. He probably was aware of such a scenario every day of his life, with a body as scrawny and spindly as that.

Simply pleased that he’d gotten what he wanted, Bond fished something else out of his pocket instead. “Lock-picks,” he said unashamedly by way of explanation. Q wouldn’t take it from his hand at first, but Bond simply moved in closer until he was standing right over the hacker with the pack of lock-picks hanging under Q’s nose.

Small in Bond’s shadow, Q quivered, but then slowly reached out a hand and took the proffered package. “Thank you,” he said so softly that it was almost inaudible, tone contrite. Then he was unrolling the supplies clumsily in front of him with hands and arms gripped by the unseen puppeteer of whatever drug was in him.

Bond worried that he wouldn’t be any use at all, and he’d have to resort to more drastic measures to get in touch with MI6. But then Q proved him wrong.

So wrong.

The more Q worked, the steadier his hands got, if only out of pure, raw determination. With even the crude tools (and very possibly no prior knowledge about earpieces), Q had the earpiece apart in mere seconds. Bond didn’t even have time to protest, and after that he was almost too shocked to consider doing anything but stare. Q’s glasses must have been a good prescription, or else his memory was simply that sharp, because he laid bits and pieces everywhere around him on the tousled rag of a blanket, yet never lost anything. He fiddled with this and that and maneuvered wires so small that Bond’s blunter fingers likely couldn’t have even grasped them.

Q was a bundle of tense nerves by the time he finished, and suddenly he was handing something back to Bond with clear nervousness. “Four minutes and three seconds,” he mumbled uneasily. Clearly, Bond had given him the impression that he was in a hurry.

Bond blinked. He was. He’d just been so impressed by the skinny young man in front of him that he’d forgotten. He took the reconfigured earpiece out of Q’s desperately shaking hands, hands that had been scarily steady a second ago but were back to being wrecks again.

And then suddenly there were shouts echoing up the hallway like Shakespeare’s dogs of war let slip. Bond swore colorfully and loudly and turned towards the door – away from Q – because he had to, every instinct telling him to at least face people who had guns. He almost forgot about Q, his objective, entirely until a timid, hesitant voice came from behind him in a rush, “It’s hooked up again. Just talk into it.”

If Bond was shocked by the sudden, unsolicited help, he didn’t show it. In fact, at that point he kicked open the door, exactly on time and with the right force to smash in the face of someone on the other side. Without a need for silence now, Bond aimed and shot the second body to come within sight.

He thought he heard a buzzing in his palm, or else the earpiece was short-circuiting… In a rush, 007 brought it up and shoved it into his ear, ignoring the scratch of wires and bent metal dangerously close to his ear-canal. “-Bond!” he just heard the tail-end of a familiar snap.

The blonde agent’s face split into a wide, sudden, and wolfish grin. “Here, Mum,” he replied with tight cheer, “Just fighting my way out of a building. I’ll give you coordinates.”

“Hmmmm, how nice to invite us to the party,” came Silva’s voice – for once very welcome, for its prior dearth – in his ear, as amused and playful as ever, “We had begun to think you’d kept all the fun to yourself, James.”

“Just send back-up,” James retorted as the arrival of more opponents soured the verbal reunion. He still had a faint smile curled at the corner of his mouth, however, and sitting dangerous in his arctic eyes. He began to explain more hurriedly as he made a rush into the hallway to avoid being boxed in, “I’ve got our hacker here. Requesting extraction team.” Bullets followed him, but Bond had already shouldered his way into another room, this one with a fire-escape handy. He added even as he ran, “We can get the hacker without killing him, and we’d be smart to.”

“Why?” came M’s tight – but grudgingly curious – reply, backed by Silva’s unmistakable growl.

“Because he’s…” ‘ _A bleeding genius, if not smarter_.’ “…Not what we expected, but potentially very…” Again, Bond was uncharacteristically picking and choosing his words despite the deadly situation. Finally, he picked, “…useful,” as he winged off a bullet that shattered the window in front of him. He practically flew out onto the fire-escape.

“Sending back-up,” M told him with an unmistakable sigh of relief.

Bond turned once more to look behind him, where Caesar was yelling and nearly blocking the door. Nonetheless, Bond’s eyes found the room across the hall. There, sitting unsteadily on the bed just like before, a figurine with its glass legs broken, was Q. “Silva,” Bond growled distractedly, “There’s a bug in the MI6 systems. Find it.”

“Wh-?” Silva’s smooth voice started.

Bond cut him off without a qualm, ducking as a bullet ricocheted, “I know it’s there, so stop bloody arguing.” He was still watching the inside of the building he had exited.

Q was safe from the bullets as the fight moved off, but that wasn’t what made Bond feel a sudden weight in his chest. No: looking at that hopeless, haggard face beneath those glasses and mop of brown hair, Bond instinctively knew that the retrieval team wouldn’t find any trace of the drug-hooked hacker.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! 
> 
> And I know that, arguably, James Bond is NOT fair, although he says he is in my chapter. He knows that he's lying, but this is just a sentence to further the plot! 
> 
> Fear not...Q will turn up again ;)


	4. Frequency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone finds out that Q is both more troublesome and resourceful than expected...
> 
> In which Bond gets a phone stalker.

Caesar turned away from the broken window and empty fire-escape to look with dangerous, narrowed eyes at Q. The druggy looked back up at him listlessly, drained from the entire encounter until his pale face was all but expressionless.

“So,” Caesar grunted with all of his frustration and embarrassment at the escape barely contained, “You going to follow him?” His challenge was edged in ice.

For a moment, Q just looked around, still sitting like a half-made pile of bones on the rumpled bed: his hazy eyes took in the three men dead on the floor, the three still standing, Burns and Caesar among them. Then, with little more warning than that, the hacker hurled himself off the bed with as much clumsiness as speed. For having almost zero muscle coordination, he was surprisingly fast, making it past the door of his room and into the hallway before more able men caught onto him. Worsening his already nonexistent chances of escaping, Q’s uncoordinated footsteps caught on one of the downed men, and he tripped on a dead body. From there, there was no hope of him getting out.

The large figure of Caesar, looking down his nose with patent dissatisfaction, walked over as his remaining men pulled Q up off the floor. “Feisty today, aren’t we?” That cold observation was followed by a vicious kick, drawing out a high, sharp yelp even as the hacker curled in on himself, held up only by the hands on him. Caesar was unmoved, temper rolling off him in waves, and the real object of his anger – Bond – out of reach. Dark, shadowed eyes locked on Q. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Burns – get him out of here.” The need to vacate the premises outweighed the desire to beat his drugged puppet senseless, right now at least.

Q knew that they were moving on. They rarely stayed in one building for even half as long as they’d stayed in this one, and whomever the blue-eyed gunman was – Q knew what he was, but little more, and he hadn’t shared that information – he would probably return with troublesome friends soon. They’d find only an empty building plus three bodies.

No one noticed as they pulled the addict into a semi-upright position, however, that Q’s hunched body was curled around the cellphone he now held. Few men missed a dead man’s mobile, and it was rare that anyone ever killed three people and made enough distraction for Q’s actions to go unnoticed.

Head bowed and body still bent as if in pain – a truth as much as a lie, although he was fairly used to Caesar’s kicks – Q silently hid the mobile clutched against his stomach like a lifeline.

~^~

From the moment Bond was reunited with MI6, things were the epitome of hectic. He wasn’t allowed to join the team going back for the hacker, but didn’t fight the decision – his instincts still told him soberly that nothing would be found. He was proved right under an hour later, but still felt a pang of frustration and loss when no further leads were reported. Q was in the wind again.

Things were so chaotic that Bond barely even had time to explain all that he’d learned, jamming the story into his usual, concise sentences on the speedy ride back to MI6. He still had his patched earpiece in, but now only M was talking in it, unless you counted the fact that Bond could hear Silva constantly snarling and shouting in the background. Apparently, they’d found the bug, and Silva was not happy. Being shown-up once by a mystery hacker was bad – finding out that he’d missed the bomb left behind by said hacker was just about enough to send the pale agent into a homicidal rage. Few people hated being made fools of more than Silva.

It seemed that, having been found, the disastrous piece of code sprang to life, or that was how it seemed to Bond. MI6 was abuzz with activity, and Bond had to stay on his toes every second, because half the time he was supposed to stay out of the way, but after communications started self-destructing, he was suddenly needed as a glorified messenger-boy.

Ironically, his earpiece was one of the ones that never cut out. One of the small, unexpected surprises of taking advantage of the skills of one undersized, enemy hacker.

It was four hours before Silva’s voice rang loudly over every intercom in the building, stiff with pride and maybe the very edges of his honeyed self-satisfaction slipping in as it recovered, “Very well then. We have rebuffed this intruder quite totally now.” Cheers actually went up, and Bond cracked a faint smile. Once Silva’s ego recovered, he’d be insufferable – after all, he’d saved MI6 yet again. If Bond hadn’t met the hacker himself, he’d had considered Silva behind all of this in a twisted attempt at gaining recognition for his computer skills.

Another half-hour later, Bond was sitting in front of M’s desk – lounging, really, because nobody did lounging better than an off-duty 00-agent.

He’d just finished a more detailed account of his adventures, and was now enduring M’s pensive look, the look that said she wasn’t sure whether to rebuke him for stealing – and then destroying (not his fault) – a civilian’s car, or ignore that in favor of getting back to more important business. Because Bond destroyed things on a regular basis, M chose the latter topic. “In your estimation, how big of a threat does this Q pose?”

Bond gave the question the consideration it deserved. In fact, he sat quietly and thoughtfully for long enough that M’s neat eyebrows rose in growing surprise. Finally, the usually spontaneous agent replied with brutal brevity, “Very.”

Rarely did Bond exaggerate, so M settled back into her seat with an air of quiet tension about her small frame. “Well,” was all she said, but somehow that word encompassed a lot more. It said that she truly grasped the problems Bond was hinting at. It also showed that she trusted his judgment on the matter when she proceeded slowly, “So, 007, what course of action do you suggest?”

It was a conundrum. Bond found that he was not entirely sure what he wanted to say. He knew what people would expect him to say: shoot the problem until it stopped moving. His heart wasn’t in it, however, when he considered the logistical benefits of such a course of action, and instead he took the easy way out: shrugging, he hedged, “There’s not much we can do. He’s not anywhere to be found, is he?”

M made an annoyed sound in her throat that sounded a lot like a perturbed feline growl, clearly not liking the reminder. “No,” she snipped, “No, he is not. Perhaps shooting this Q while you had the chance might have been the best option.”

“I was a little biased in my choices at the moment,” Bond drawled back, unconcerned, “I was very intent on staying alive, for some reason. Next time I’ll throw survival to the wind and just shoot the problem.”

It was clear that M was torn between saying, ‘See that you do,’ and berating him about his usual tendency to do just that – shoot the problem, and leave MI6 cleaning up a big mess afterwards. Bond allowed himself a small, secret smile of juvenile victory when M growled again in annoyance, glaring at him with the sharpness and precision of twin honed scalpels.

“Am I dismissed?” Bond asked next, putting on the lazy, insubordinate tone that he knew M hated so much.

If it weren’t beneath the head of MI6, she would have thrown a paperweight at him. As it was, her fingers twitched towards the object before she got a hold of herself. “For the time being. I imagine that Mr. Silva and more than a few other people will have questions for you, but that will come in its own time, through the proper channels.” She leaned over and moved the mouse for her computer, as if not trusting it to work anymore. “Now that we have the proper channels available again.”

~^~

And the day ended. Bond felt more exhausted than he would have if he’d been on a full-scale mission, and he was acutely feeling all of the scrapes, cuts, and bruises from his car-crash, although Medical had seen him. Medical never wanted to see him again, but that was typical of 007’s frequent trips to Medical. It left Bond annoyed and Medical scarred. Now the blue-eyed man was just glad to be back in his flat, tired but only a bit worse for wear. He collapsed onto the broad couch that he slept on more often than his bed, lacking the drive or the strength to make it to another room.

“You got all of the viruses.”

Bond jumped right off the couch and drew his gun, hearing the bodiless voice right in his ear. Logically, he knew that the words came from his patched-up earpiece, still nestled in his ear, but he still stood up, thrumming with tension as his glacial blue eyes snaked around the room. It was just as empty as before, just as safe and just as impenetrable.

Still, he heard Q’s quiet, hesitant voice in his ear.

“You…” The voice was very tentative through the earpiece, as if Q were struggling with conversation, but trying, “You did well at that.”

Bond swallowed to try and regain control of himself, tamping down on the adrenalin that was still spiking his blood. “Q?” he asked in a low voice, danger pending as he tried and failed to get a grasp on the situation.

The reply came back, even softer, now sounding regretful – regretful of a name. “Yes,” he sighed, meaning, ‘ _Yes, I’m still unfortunately me_.’

The sound was jarring, but, then again, all of this was jarring. He’d given the hacker his busted earpiece for five minutes – no, four minutes and three seconds – and now the unfortunate fellow was muttering in his ear! “How did you get this frequency?”

“I…!” Now the voice in his ear was sounding panicked, flighty, even growing more distant as if Q were pulling away from whatever he was talking into. Bond realized that he’d lose him altogether in a second or two, and scrambled to change tact.

He grasped at a shift in topic and tried to significantly soften his tone: “I suppose that iPhone you had at the coffee shop was able to do…extraordinary things.” He was rubbing his forehead, feeling a headache coming on at all of what was happening, because this was all just about too much to take in. Bond’s next words held a slight growl that was almost more resigned than angry, “I suppose the fact that you got into my earpiece isn’t so surprising.”

The voice that came back was small and contrite, but at least it was still there, “I don’t have that phone anymore. Caesar…” Even saying the name made Q’s voice grow nervous, but he pressed on with a gusting sigh in Bond’s ear, “Caesar took it back.” Another long pause, before the elusive hacker admitted, “I stole this one.”

Although Bond’s mind whirled for a second at this new information, he recognized surprisingly quickly what was going on. Being an agent meant his mind worked a little differently. “You took it off one of the dead bodies, didn’t you?”

A squeak of surprise rewarded him. “How did you know that?”

It was… nice… to hear something normal in Q’s voice, in this case an indignant squawk. Bond didn’t know what it was about that that calmed him down, but he felt the thud of adrenalin through his muscles taper off, and his shoulders relaxed. “I’m smarter than I look,” he replied wryly.

“Oh.” The enthusiasm, like Bond’s adrenalin, was petering out. Q sounded small and tired again. There was a long silence that Bond wanted to break, but he sensed that the hacker was actually the one scrambling for something to say, but failing thanks to lack of experience in conversation. Finally his voice picked up again, “Did your computer team find any link to backtrack the virus to other systems?”

It actually sounded like Q hoped they had, although Bond noted that Q hadn’t said anything about tracking the virus back to Q himself. Bond settled for the truth, words frank, “I wasn’t in charge of that. I’m just a gunman.”

“Oh,” Q said again, murmuring self-consciously as an afterthought, barely heard, “I knew that.”

Before the incredibly smart hacker could come up with another topic of conversation, Bond pushed his voice in, needing answers, “Q, I probably can’t understand what you did to get this frequency, but _why_ did you call it?”

Bond’s exasperated confusion over all of this was matched only by the other, smaller man’s intense wariness, so much so that Bond could almost feel his thin body pulling back from the phone. “I got the frequency when I fixed your earpiece, all right?!” he finally snapped, and Bond could only stand and blink in the middle of his living room; he didn’t know electronics well, but that barely sounded possible. Nonetheless, Q had done it. “As for why…” Q’s words stopped so suddenly that, for a moment, Bond thought someone had come and attacked the addict, but the quiet on the other end of the line was too benign to Bond’s knowledgeable ears. Q simply seemed totally stumped as to an answer, his great brain met by a steel wall that even it couldn’t think its way past.

Q didn’t know.

Before Bond could even digest that realization, Q was stumbling his way through an obvious lie, “I could only reach you, so I contacted you to mention one of the other groups that I hacked. Everny and Company Corporations. If they don’t find the virus in three day’s time, it goes active, and they’ll be shut down internally-”

Nearly overloaded by the fast spew of words – and doubting that he’d understand the technological jargon that was coming – Bond gave his blond head a hard shake and demanded over Q’s voice, “Q, where are you?”

The flow of words stopped, as swiftly as if a tap had been turned off. “I’m not telling you,” came the stiff, tense, threatened reply.

The reply that said, ‘ _I don’t want to tell you_.’

‘ _I’m terrified to tell you._

 _‘I don’t trust you enough to tell you_.’

‘ _I don’t trust anyone enough to tell them.’_

 _‘…Anything_.’

‘ _My information is all I have_.’

“Goodbye.”

“Q-!” Bond barked, but he’d already heard the click of a call ending, evidence that he’d finally spooked the mistrustful young man clean away. Frustrated but knowing he was beaten, Bond sighed. He ran a hand back over his short blond hair, looking around his house as if to see something else strange – because that would just be in keeping with this evening. He honestly could not bring to mind a stranger experience than being tracked down and then secretly called by a wanted hacker of MI6, possibly the most effective – and most troubled – hacker in existence. It was all… simply impossible. He’d threatened to kill Q (although he’d backed off mostly on that idea), and Q had stolen the frequency of his earpiece; he’d been the only person thus far to physically try and chase Q down, from MI6 no less, and Q had turned around and gotten in his ear. Bond would have liked to think that this was all out of the goodness of Q’s heart, wanting to give warning to someone about the additional virus, but 007 had heard Q’s voice: he’d only said that as a distraction, as a desperate attempt at saying something. Bond knew the sound of lies above all else from his dangerous line of work – it was one of the reasons why he was so good – and Q’s reason for connecting with Bond had been a lie.

Brain ready to explode from confusion, Bond rubbed his temples and sighed, and then tapped the small nub on the earpiece that was meant to turn it on and link it to MI6. It had actually been off when Q had started talking through it. “Get me M,” Bond said with a tired tone and little patience as some underling or other picked up his signal at MI6.

It would be sentimental and foolish for Bond to leave MI6 ignorant about the rogue call he’d just received. He’d have to forego sleep a little longer to tell M (and likely Silva) about the new development. Q had obviously – but irrationally – not wanted to be found, but that didn’t mean a lot of other people wouldn’t sleep easier if they could find him.

Bond included.

~^~

Stunning M speechless was a rare and remarkable thing. Bond had done it more than any other agent, and Silva would have come in a close second if not for his tendency to smile triumphantly – triumphant smiles at her expense seemed to kickstart M’s sharp tongue, and then she’d tear a verbal strip off the large, pale agent. Because of this, he was a distant second in the ‘Who can shock M into silence the most?’ game. Few other people got into enough trouble to even be contenders.

Bond had just earned another point in the game, as he sat – eyes shadowed and red-rimmed with tiredness at the long day and even longer night – in M’s office and watched her try to digest the story of his unorthodox caller.

Silva – who was, indeed, in on the meeting, since he’d taken Q’s attack very personally – recovered faster. “It would seem you’ve developed a stalker,” he joked in his oiled voice, sounding very amused. He also sounded like he was joking, as he often was.

Bond wasn’t entirely sure how far off the mark that assumption was, but didn’t feel like bringing it up. It was all too weird.

“Do you know where he is?” M finally asked imperatively, shaking off her shock.

Slouched in his chair, Bond rolled one muscled shoulder in a shrug. “No, he hung up before telling me. He said something about having sent another virus to-” Bond remembered the name easily, his memory keen even if his computer skills were admittedly lacking. “-Everny and Company Corporations. They’ve got a virus that will go active in three days.”

“I’ll get people working on that.” Already, M was leaning over her desk and pushing buttons. A voice came up through the intercom next to her, asking how they could be of service. Bond tuned out the sound of her giving instructions to contact the threatened company.

Meanwhile, Silva – looking entirely too interested and awake for this time of night… day… morning – pushed off the far wall and strode over to Bond, dark eyes alight. “Give me your interesting little earpiece, James. Let’s see if I can follow the path our little friend left.”

Silva said ‘friend’ the way a cat said ‘canary’, but Bond sighed and pulled the patched earpiece out. It scratched his ear a bit, but it had been doing that for hours, so once more made little difference. If it could help them find out where Caesar had their little hacker squirreled away, it was worth it.

Without asking for or receiving orders from M (who gave him a distracted look from where she was giving out other orders in response to Bond’s new info, but otherwise ignored him), Silva strode out and Bond followed. He was more invested in the outcome of all of this than he wanted to admit.

‘Invested’ did not mean ‘knowledgeable’ – over the next three hours, Bond watched Silva do things that went right over his head. Leaning over a desk that he’d commandeered from a protesting techy down in the Quartermaster’s Branch, Silva hooked up the small earpiece to more wires than Bond would have previously thought possible. “There’s only so much these little things are capable of,” Silva commented smoothly, tapping the wire-encapsulated earpiece, “But I’ll see what I can do.” His smile said he could do a lot.

It looked to 007 that Silva tried everything. Fingers flew over keyboard keys as Silva worked through the link to try and chase their hare back down his own rabbit-hole. Sometimes, Silva thought he was winning – this was obvious, because Silva had a tendency to celebrate before he won. At a hint of victory, he was grinning and crowing and using his smooth, amused voice to praise himself. Bond, of a much more patient and taciturn nature, leaned a hip against the desk or sat down, saying nothing unless Silva playfully complained about the silence. Then Bond gave him a gimlet look as he said flatly, “He out-hacked you on an iPhone, you know.”

That brought Silva to all new heights of mouth-frothing determination, and Bond was as much amused as he was secretly intimidated by the way Silva’s eyes almost seemed to go red. Punching keys and garbling his words in his fury, Silva continued to try and track down their hacker for hours.

But despite the fact that Bond knew Q only had a simple, fairly low-tech phone (he had thought he’d heard actual buttons being pushed), Silva was still the loser by the time the trail went cold and he gave up.

~^~

Q leaned his head exhaustedly against his knees with a sigh, finally relaxing, letting his arms hang limply at his sides as he sat upon the rickety, mussed bed. Finally, he’d gotten out of the other hacker’s reach. Q had eventually been pushed to such extremes that he’d had to physically disconnect pieces of the precious phone in his hand, all so that the monster hacking on the other end wouldn’t catch him. Q’s shoulders shook with sobs of terror and exhaustion at the thought of the past three hours.

The tears continued to flow for some time, but eventually he turned his head, realizing that someone might check in on him soon. Rarely did this happen – mostly, he was left alone unless he caused trouble…or unless his addiction started taking hold of him like a puppeteer, making him beg and eventually scream and claw at the doors and walls until someone gave him what he wanted… needed. Still, there was a chance that someone might unlock his door and come in, so Q carefully – reverently, like a mother with her egg – drew his hand in with the mobile cradled in his palm. It was a simple thing, an older cellphone with few capabilities, but it was his only link to the outside world. He hid it against his stomach. At the moment, the phone was rather lobotomized – off the grid entirely, for all intents and purposes. Anything so that no one could find him and hurt him. He hated where he was now, with Caesar, with the drug-cravings that controlled him, but Q was smart enough to know that there were worse things to fear.

Almost too exhausted now to think anymore – his body had been weak before, and now he was all but at his strength’s end – the druggy slid over onto his side, slipping his precious phone up under his shirt where it hopefully wouldn’t be noticed. He didn’t pull the blankets over himself, he didn’t reach out and search for the pillow he knew wasn’t there. He simply crashed into a rough sort of unconsciousness, falling instantly asleep with no time to think of comfort.

~^~

Bond didn’t hear from Q for three weeks. No one did. If he was still active as a hacker, no one knew, although Silva hunted down a few occurrences that might have been attributed to the drug-addicted young man. All attempts at finding the hacker were a bust.

Without actually letting anyone know, Bond had kept his patched-up earpiece in the hopes that Q would use it again. Being a 00-agent meant Bond had a lot of unsavory skills that he was disturbingly good at, and stealing was one of them, so he snatched the earpiece from the Quartermaster’s Branch without trouble.

Q had seemed eager enough for verbal company, but now the line was stubbornly silent, as if Silva’s attack had been the last straw. Once bitten and twice shy, Q wasn’t using the link anymore. Remembering the scared, exhausted eyes in the barely furnished room and then the wildly distrustful voice in his ear, Bond shouldn’t have been surprised. He sighed, thinking in retrospect that he should have handled things differently – maybe kept Silva back a little bit, at least. MI6 needed to find the hacker, but maybe it would have been better for Bond to try and coax that information out of Q gently rather than have Silva take the quick, brutal route.

Three weeks later, Silva was still steaming, and Bond (while avoiding the cranky Silva like everyone else was) mentally promised not to go to the man again in order to track down Q.

As if alerted by the idly-made promise, Bond heard a tinny sound from his coffee table just as he was finishing up a late supper at his home. Too professional to appear shocked…mostly…Bond rushed over and picked it up, shoving it into his ear with only a slight wince at its rough wiring.

“…Bond?” came Q’s quiet, timid voice, as wary as a street-cat, even more wary than last time.

Bond’s answer was entirely instinctive: “How do you know my name?”

He thought he heard a sigh… a sigh of jaded relief… but it was too faint to catch. Q was back in his ear again after a long hiatus, but he was still as cautious as they came. “I saw your file, last time I got into MI6’s computers.” Bond wondered just how many times Q had done that; the young man made it all sound way too easy. And Q would only have done that after seeing Bond at the old apartment building. There was another pause, and Bond thought he could detect the sound of someone chewing idly on a fingernail. Finally there was that painful attempt at conversation again, hesitant and faltering after the betrayal of last time, “So you got the virus at Every and Company Corporations?”

Resisting the urge to sigh in annoyance at this roundabout conversation – there was only forced interest in Q’s voice, telling Bond that this was just another piece of verbal filler – Bond tried to think of a suitable answer. How did one go about talking to a wanted felon whom their bosses were hunting down with the determination of bloodhounds? It didn’t help that that felon was more flighty than a sparrow and only connected to Bond by the tenuous link of a mobile to a battered earpiece. “Barely. We knew it was there, but taking it apart took nearly more time than we had.” Since standing was pointless, Bond eased himself down onto his couch, although the tension of the situation kept him from relaxing. He worded his next necessary question carefully, “Q… why don’t you want me to know where you are?” It was a better question, he figured, then one about exactly where Q was, since that information was something Q hadn’t seem eager to give out to anyone.

The answer was more explosive than Bond had anticipated, as Q let out a rush of incredulous air and snapped back with more volume than he’d shown previously, “ _Why_?! Because MI6 wants my head on a stake, that’s why!”

Bond grimaced to himself, having to admit that was probably true. Even if MI6 could be convinced to bring Q in alive, evaluations would follow, the kind of evaluations that sometimes ended with a quiet murder being the verdict anyway. Q was so dangerous that odds were good that MI6 would terminate him, either immediately or after following protocol and labeling him officially as a menace first. Bond had nearly worn that label himself in the past, and knew the level of fear that came with it, and how lucky he was that M’s trust in him had endured. “ _I_ didn’t shoot you!” he tried to argue weakly.

There was a pause, proof that Q was listening. In his ear, Bond could hear the sound of a body shifting a little, curling around the phone as if huddling closer to a fire for warmth. “No, you didn’t,” Q replied with shy, heartbreaking apology, and still that broken edge of uncertainty. Then he just left it with silence, and Bond wondered what could be so interesting about just listening to a 00-agent breathing in a silent room.

Gathering himself, keeping his voice as gentle as he could – which was much more gentle than most people knew – Bond asked the question he had to ask, “Q, can you tell me where you are?”

There was rustling, the sound of someone being startled, as if the words had been a slap to Q’s face and he was now pulling back from the phone. “No,” he snapped, angry, “I already had to fight off your hacker-!” He sounded defensive and furious in the way that a cornered animal is furious, frustration making muscles vibrate and lips pull back from teeth in a posture that screamed ‘ _Why can’t you just leave me alone_!?’

Bond hurried to calm him before the fight-or-flight response ended up in another hang-up and a long silent-treatment again, “I won’t tell Silva – the hacker – this time. I’ll leave my earpiece at home, so he can’t try at it again.” He allowed himself a slightly wolfish grin. “My home is defended well enough to make sure that no one will come and find the earpiece. This way you’ll only have to deal with me.”

“You can’t promise that,” Q said in a soft, exhaustedly sad voice. Not even the remnant of hope lurked there to contradict his words. Bond could all but hear him shaking his head negatively. “I know enough about MI6 to know you can’t promise that.”

This was frustrating, especially to an agent used to dealing with physical problems that could be combatted with weaponry and muscle. He was aware that he growled audibly in his throat.

Q seemed to have lost his heart for conversation. Still, he said tiredly, “Fielding Enterprises. I loaded a string of code into their software that will start feeding their funds to a bank account of one of Caesar’s associates. It’s hidden in an email that went straight to junk.”

And with that, Q hung up again.

~^~

It was difficult explaining how he’d learned this when Bond had promised himself not to let Silva try to back-hack Q again. There was a lot of yelling involved on M’s part as she tried to get Bond to explain himself, and a lot of skilled lying on Bond’s part as he explained that he’d been around the earpiece again, Q had contacted it and told all of this to Bond, and then the earpiece had broken. Where the earpiece was now, Bond pretended not to know. Being 007 meant he was a liar of top quality, and even M couldn’t catch him at it. She didn’t look happy, and after another non-answer, completely gave up on asking Bond why in the world Q kept telling him these things. Then again, the answer to that was a mystery even to Bond. Q was acting on impulses that Bond honestly didn’t understand.

So, once again, MI6 went to try and undo Q’s work. Also once again, Silva had to be sent for, because the complexity of Q’s work was too far above the capabilities of anyone else that MI6 had. At long last, these odd jobs were beginning to annoy Silva, enough so that some people wondered with idle hope that maybe the blonde-haired agent would give up on trying to get the Quartermaster position. By this point, Silva was so volatile that only Bond was safe around him, and only because Bond had the necessary training to beat him in a fight if Silva’s temperament led to that. Watching Silva now, as he stalked around MI6 (someone needed to get that man out on a mission), Bond could well understand Q’s desire not to meet up with him, over cyberspace or otherwise.

With so many things going on close to home, Bond was kept close on his own missions. He was glad of this, because he felt as though part of his mind was always revolving around a small piece of battered, patched machinery sitting in his living room.

~^~

“Get in there!”

The lazily malicious words were accompanied by a shove that sent Q stumbling forward, into his new room. Thanks to the last bust – in which MI6 had somehow stepped in and halted the money transfer from Fielding Enterprises – Caesar’s group had had to do a bit of moving. That was happening a lot lately: it turned out that criminals were rarely happy when Caesar didn’t deliver as promised, and were best avoided from then on. This was the third place in as many weeks that Q had been shoved into, Caesar’s golden goose locked away safe from prying eyes or means of escape. The golden goose sported a black eye, because when Caesar wasn’t happy, his fists did the talking. But he’d given Q his fix nonetheless.

That had been… Q wasn’t sure how long ago. His body was still buzzing and he was aware that the happy cloud enveloping his brain was entirely unnatural, but he could stand and walk shakily.

As always, the room was small, windowless, and contained so little in it that Q’s powerful brain – in desperate need of stimulation, more so than normal people – was already screaming. Legs shaky and his eye-socket distantly aching from the earlier punch, the thin, drugged figure moved about the room, touching each wall, trying to make the room feel bigger this way. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but having one’s world reduced to this hurt in a visceral way that was hard to grasp by any who hadn’t experienced it. Q’s mind was still screaming that this wasn’t right, and in the end, Q’s attempts to be optimistic about this new room – cleaner than the last, an actual fluorescent light overhead that worked – crumpled and fell away.

He sat down on the floor where he was, hyperventilating and pressing his hands against the side of his head as if trying to hold himself together.

In the end, this was just another fishbowl to keep him in, no matter how he swam around it.

 


	5. Crushing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond gets a closer look at just how the world is crushing the hacker named Q, even if it is only through a earpiece.
> 
> This chapter also gives just a touch of backstory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it is a short chapter! I just survived some tests as school that have been crippling my ability to type XP Now I'm back at it!

“Bond.  Bond.   _Bond_!”

The repetitive call of his name from the small speaker of the earpiece woke Bond, urging him to groan as his sleep came to an end.  He’d taken to leaving the earpiece by the couch, so that when he fell asleep there, he’d still be able to hear if Q suddenly came across it.  In this case, Bond had actually crashed in his bed, but the little piece of battered metal and wiring was on a bedside table.  “Q?” he asked, blearily but coming around far more quickly than most people would.  “What is it?”

“I-I-I-”  Q was talking very quickly, like someone who had just had too much caffeine or a ride on a rollercoaster that was a little much for them.  It bordered on panic, and Q seemed barely able to talk.  Still, the hacker sounded as if he was alone on his side of the line.  With a harsh swallow and an audible attempt to gather himself, Q blurted, “I need something to distract me!”

That made Bond sit up, perplexed to the nth degree.  “What?”

“Dis-s-stract me,” the words kept tangling like eels on Q’s tongue, as if they were living, grabbing onto him as he tried to make them do what he wanted.  Bond could actually hear Q drag a hand through his mop of brown hair.  “Anything!”  A low, keening moan, finished by words muffled by what might have been Q’s arm, or the backs of his legs, “I n-n-neeeed it.”  The words, not meant for Bond to hear, answered most of the questions in Bond’s head.  This was Q in a state of withdrawal.

It was still distressing to hear.  Incredibly distressing.  Bond had seen men die and had seen men tortured, and had experienced himself nearly as much as he saw, but hearing a man battling the clawing urges of an addiction right in his ear was something both new and horrifying.  It sounded like Q was coming apart at the seams.

“Ask me a question.  Can you do math?  You’re an agent.  Shoot geographical trivia at me,” Q babbled out at a desperate mile-a-minute pace.  All the while were the unprecedented sounds of restlessness from the other end of the line, as Q tried and failed to get comfortable wherever he was.  “P-p-please distract me!” he finally begged with a sob.    

Scrambling for something that he could do even as he sat up, bed-sheets pooling at his bare waist, Bond started to recite some distance and math equations.

“Too easy,” Q immediately panted back, saying the answer almost before Bond finished the question.  Q dragged in a shaky breath while running his fingers through his hair harshly enough for Bond to hear it.  As Bond worked his way up all of the difficult math he could think of and then on into geography, it became clear that none of that even tripped up Q’s brain, and that keening noise was starting up again in Q’s throat, the sounds of a shriek being held back.

“I don’t… I don’t…” Q interrupted to start stuttering, “I don’t want to beg for it this time… but it’s killing me…!”  Bond had to put up with another groaned sob that went straight to his heart like an unexpected knife.  “It’s like… having all of your insides pulled out, and replaced by something that you don’t even recognize.  It makes you less than you are.”

That last sentence, said with grief-stricken, defeated certainty, had Bond’s mind focusing despite itself.  Quiet voice reaching past the sounds of the addict’s panting and mewling, Bond began thinking like an agent, outlining, “Q – tell me this.  You’re on a building seven stories up, and your target is in the building two streets over; the buildings in between are negligible, because they’re only three stories.  You have to shoot this target through the window of his room, but you know there’s a wind.”

There was a pause, the sound of only breathing and fidgeting, but less fidgeting.  “How much wind?” Q finally asked, sounding just the tiniest bit curious.

“You don’t know,” Bond told him candidly, “But you know the flag down the street is being lifted away from you.  Where do you aim to hit your target?”

“I-I don’t know much about guns,” Q admitted, words still shaky.

“I do.  So ask me all you want.  Maybe you’ll get an answer that helps you solve the problem.”

So, for the next half hour, Bond patiently answered all of Q’s questions about his made-up scenario, his own brain trained to think these things through instinctively.  Q’s brain went about it analytically, starting to compile numbers in a web of complexity that soon outgrew anything Bond could comprehend, but at least Q seemed hooked on the question and distracted by it.  Eventually, he solved it, calculating multiple angles down to the millimeter.  Then Bond gently thought up another one.

This worked for hours, much longer than most would expect the willpower of a serious addict to hold out.  Finally, though, Q was mumbling incoherently to himself unless Bond brought him back into focus, and then Q was starting to whimper and beg again.  For another half hour, the hacker refused to beg loudly enough for anyone but Bond to hear.

But it was clear that he was being ripped apart inside, and Bond knew that he was losing him.  No amount of distraction was enough by the end, and suddenly, Bond leaned back with a resigned sigh as Q’s voice rose into a feral, agonized shriek that didn’t even sound human.  The Q that Bond had been coming to know had been disappearing little by little over the last few hours, being replaced by someone who could barely think about anything beyond his next fix.  He’d even started asking Bond if he ‘had any’ and then Q would come back to himself so full of shame and self-loathing that he’d curl away from the phone, and Bond would have to almost yell to get him back.

Now Q had obviously dropped the phone and was screaming, whining, wheedling, and cajoling with shameless greed from somewhere in the room, the sounds of frail fists hitting a door echoing back to Bond’s ear.  It took what seemed like hours more before someone answered, and then Bond heard laughter, laughter as someone in Caesar’s crew taunted Q and threw his own helplessness back in his face.  Q was stripped of his self-worth and couldn’t even fight back, because his body craved what the man had so much.

And then the fighting started.  At the last second, when Bond assumed Caesar’s man had brought out the syringe to give the hacker his fix, Q grew coherent enough to hate himself for this.  His pleading whimpers suddenly became snarls filled with intense viciousness, and there was a curse and a hard thud, followed by others, so that Bond imagined Q actually being thrown against the side of the bed hard enough to move it.  Then it sounded like he was tossed against the wall as well, sliding down onto the bed, and Bond could only hope that the phone was hidden, because everything was loud and close now.

“No! ... _No_!” Q could be heard growling, fighting someone off.

The other man grunted and snapped back callously, “Can’t change your mind now, runt.”  There was the hard slap of skin on skin, and Q yelped high and clear like a dog, and the sounds of his struggles decreased drastically. There was one final hiss of breath, and Bond knew that it was all over: he could all but hear Q’s body relaxing and going unnaturally slack, the breath coming out of him in a sigh that touched on paradise.

“There,” the other man sneered, “You act like you hate it, but you know that’s not true.”  And with no more care than that, the man’s footsteps faded out of the room.

The door shut.  Presumably locked.  Bond could hear only the faint sounds of breathing, and the occasional, weak shuffle of a limb against blankets.

“Q?” Bond called as calmly as possible, still keeping his voice down carefully.  He didn’t know if Q was actually coherent enough to hear anything, much less understand.  When he’d last seen Q under the influence, the bespectacled young man had barely looked like he knew his own name.

Therefore, it was no surprise when there was no response, just another sigh of unnatural relief and ecstasy.  Then there was the susurrus of an arm slithering over the blankets, however, and the scrape of fingers wrapping around the phone, presumably moving it.

With a jolt that went all the way up and down his spine – and sliced through his heart in the process – Bond realized that Q had pulled the phone in close to his cheek, and while the drug rocked him with euphoria, was sobbing in utmost grief.

~^~

“007?”

Bond turned towards the man, realizing that he’d been distracted.  The fellow was trying to give him necessary orders, and was looking at the blonde agent questioningly.  “I said that you were on a mission to Paris.  I’ve your running orders here.”

“Hm,” Bond grunted by way of thanks, taking the sheaf of papers politely enough and not watching as the man walked away.

It had been another week since he’d heard from Q, and this time he was sure that it was nothing on his part that had engendered the long silence, unless his presence on the line while Q begged like a dog could be considered his fault.  He remembered – both when he’d seen it first in person and then heard it a week ago – Q’s last-minute burst of fragile, desperate pride, when he’d realized what he was doing and realized also that it was bad for him.  Time and again that pride was destroyed, however, first by men stronger than Q and then internally by a drug he couldn’t stop craving.  Q’s present silence had the ring of ashamedness to it, and Bond wished for at least the hundredth time that he could contact Q the way Q could contact him.

That’s where Bond’s mind had been for days, and he hid his distraction just enough that he hadn’t attracted M or Silva’s attention yet.

And now a mission.  Never before had Bond been so averse to leaving the country.  He was reasonably sure that Q was still within England’s borders, and although no one could find him or Caesar, Bond felt as though he should stay.  Usually, Bond, like any good 00-agent, felt cooped up at MI6 and tended to head out with any excuse they could come up with.  In fact, a 00-agent was widely considered a menace if kept within the confines of MI6 headquarters for too long – Silva had been sent out already, on a mission that would hopefully drain his temper a little bit without causing an international incident.

Orders were orders, though, and those orders didn’t say anything about Bond not packing two earpieces – one new one to listen to MI6 through, and one particular old one that still had a scratchy wire sticking out of it and occasionally emitted the wary tones of a certain hacker.

~^~

Another day, another room.  Now, Q didn’t check the dimensions of his prison, but instead simply wished that he could stay in one place for more than three days.  His brain had gone from thirsty for stimulation to suddenly overloaded by the constant, rapid change in scenery.

As the door locked behind him, leaving Q only with silence, the thin figure felt a twitch of reflex to go and pace along the walls again.  Maybe it would feel bigger?  Maybe he could accustom himself to the room and appreciate it as bigger than the back of the van he’d been sleeping restlessly in for the past hour?  But every time he considered this, the urge grew less and less, and this time it fluttered and just died in his chest.  A mind could only hold out so long, and Q’s was buckling piece by piece, leaving only the razor-sharp, cold intellect behind.  All of the human bulwark around it was crumbling.

Another piece fell now, as Q failed to dredge up the interest to inspect his prison – his ‘fishbowl’ – or even rail against the small size of it.  His life had been reduced ages ago to needles and cravings, and now it was being reduced to single, small rooms with a bed and little else.

It was with a small mewl of acceptance that Q walked in and made himself at home as best he could – a procedure that took all of three minutes and barely had Q’s brain stirring sluggishly.  There was something painful about realizing that you were used to your entire existence being contained in such a small place, but Q’s mind had found it harder to constantly fight this notion.  If nothing else, Caesar was happy that his pet hacker had finally accepted at least this portion of his lot in life, because Q caused a lot less trouble when he didn’t automatically get stir-crazy.

‘ _I’m thoroughly domesticated_ ,’ Q thought to himself, attempting levity and not quite reaching it, likening himself to a goldfish again – some fish claimed the whole ocean as their home, but Q had lived in a fishbowl long enough that his fins were stunted and his notion of the world weak if not nonexistent.  He wondered with a flash of mortification if he’d even be able to handle the world, if let out into it again – or, goodness forbid, given any living space larger than a single bedroom with an adjoining bathroom.

That fear – a vibrant spark as rejuvenating as it was terrible – faded, too, though, as Q lifted his hands and watched their fine shaking.  He didn’t even know what drug he was on now.  Once, when he’d first felt hands holding him down and pressing something wonderful and consuming and wicked into his veins, he’d been able to identify precisely what he was craving.  Unfortunately for Caesar, knowledge was power for Q, and no one wielded that power with more precision and force than Q.  Even if Q simply knew what he was addicted to, he had a hope of fighting it.  Sometimes hope was all he had, but it was still something.  On the few occasions that he’d managed to run rampant on a laptop unsupervised, he’d nearly found information to help himself with, and Caesar had finally begun to grow annoyed.

And paranoid.  After the last few failures – secretly thanks to tips fed to one 007 – Caesar was angry and needed something to blame.  So he’d blamed Q.  There was nothing new there, although this time Q had come very close to getting broken bones.  This was all bad enough, but then the other side of the coin began to show up: Q might have been working less successfully with MI6 mysteriously turning up all the time, but he was still such a technological force of nature that other crime-bosses were starting to take notice, and that meant that Caesar grew afraid.  In the end, Caesar was just a minor actor playing at the big leagues, and his only trump card was the thin addict he kept locked in a back room.

Q sucked in an involuntary breath, frightened even at the memory.  He tucked his arm in close, clutching the crook of his elbow and wishing that could fix everything.  Caesar had realized (however incorrectly) two things: that Q’s productivity depended on just how clear-headed he was, and that it was the addiction that guaranteed Q didn’t go far – he always had to come back.  When Q had been hooked on a simple drug, that last had been a mere technicality, so Caesar had begun pulling strings with some well-connected friends of his.  Some of those friends had known some friends, and some of those friends had known about the finer details of addictive substances.

Ever since then, Q didn’t even know what he was hooked on.

If Q were ever to escape now (and he’d made twenty-seven unsuccessful attempts to date, nearly half being unsuccessful only because Q had had to come crawling back when his cravings started to destroy him from the inside out), he’d have no hope of finding his drug of choice out on the streets.  He had no clue where to start, or how high a tolerance he had for anything anyway.  The other side to this was that none of Caesar’s rivals knew what Q was hooked on either, and therefore would be unable to see to his needs if they kidnapped him.

Unless they had the technology necessary to identify the substance and replicate it.  Q’s analytical mind snagged on that, desperate, and soon began to focus in as he’d done with Bond’s targeting questions.  He liked doing that: he’d enjoyed having nothing but equations and cold information in his head, enjoyed the feeling of nothing but his brain as it stretched and flexed like an efficient, perfect muscle.  The rest of Q might have been a wreck, but his brain was good, as least so long as the haze of drugs wasn’t clouding it.  He grudgingly had to be thankful to Caesar a bit in that category, as galling as that was: Caesar had grown annoyed with how often Q had been either insane with cravings or nearly unconscious while under the influence, and whatever he was giving his addict had changed accordingly.  Now, the record was that Q could go a full week and a half with nothing in his system before he started to break down.  Q didn’t know what that meant – he was a computer genius, not a medical wizard.

The high after that, though… Q bit down a yip of terror and shuddering, betraying delight at just the memory.  Whatever concoction he was on, it felt like a jolt of electricity through his entire system, so that his nerves were on fire and wouldn’t turn off.  The logical part of his brain would, terrifyingly, start to detach – locked off from the rest of his frenzied, overcome mind – and would be yelling and screaming that this was wrong-all-wrong!  But while Q rested in horrific euphoria, his brain could do nothing.  It stripped him of his strongest weapon as easily as the hands of a child pulling wings off a dragonfly.

It was possible that one or some of Caesar’s rivals had access to technology that could figure out the mess that had been made out of Q, but there was no chance that they’d let him near it if they had him – it would be in their best interests not to, after all.  After they figured out for themselves what Q’s drug of necessity (necessity, definitely not choice) was, they’d just become another Caesar, using that information as a leash.

MI6, though…  Preferring to think of logical problems rather than his present situation, the thin figure sat cross-legged on the bed and let his eyes unfocus, seeing only the bits of information flitting through his head.  MI6 was a high-tech facility, and what they didn’t have they could get access to, making them high on Q’s list.  The only thing that worried him was that they were the ‘good guys’.

Guilt and fear crawled through him.

He was not.

If nothing else, he didn’t think that MI6 would withhold that information from him, although paranoia was a close friend by now – long ago, Q would have at least trusted MI6 not to use him, but now he couldn’t bring himself to believe that with utmost certainty.  If nothing else, he was more than aware of how easy it would be to kill him, to delete him like some line of bad code.

Every door that Q looked at seemed to close in front of his nose!  He pushed his fingers under the rims of his glasses to tiredly rub at his eyes, curling forward over his legs to make himself look as small as he was feeling.  He could be as smart as he wanted, but it still didn’t make him invincible or even slightly safe, it seemed.

Next, logically – inevitably – his mind went to Bond.  The sound of the man’s voice was still in his ears, as well as the dangerous glint of his gun as it had pointed towards Q’s face but never pulled the trigger.  Q didn’t trust Bond enough to tell him much, and was forever afraid of saying anything at all.  Just thinking of seeing the man face-to-face – in the past or ever again – made his spine shudder with a frostbitten chill of fear.  Still, the fact remained that while Q told 007 very little, that was still more than what he told everyone else, which was nothing.  Q didn’t talk to people, because no one talked to him, and Q didn’t trust people because they all had hurt him.  Those who hadn’t hurt him yet simply hadn’t had the opportunity.

But Bond had said he was fair…

‘ _When he could be_ ,’ Q’s mind reminded him darkly.  Bond was an agent of MI6, after all, and quite a dangerous one according to the files Q had broken into at the first opportunity.

Q’s slender hand closed around the phone he still had, clutching at it as if it were the exception to the rule: the only thing he could trust.

Was Bond the exception to the rule, too? he wondered with another shiver of hope and trepidation.

~^~

The next week, Bond was still in France – sometimes crime lords could be quite wily, and even if you were James Bond, you could not shoot people that you could not find.  Therefore, he was already quite annoyed – and in a bit of pain, because crime lords often had henchmen that were much easier to find, and seemed to carry guns – when he stripped off his bloodied shirt and inspected the hole in it.  It had been a long day, and he wished he was back at his flat, where the couch was just the right size and the first-aid kit was always well-stocked.  Grunting as he inspected the graze upon his bicep, Bond’s ears almost physically pricked as his earpiece – the new one, not the one that Q had patched – chirped.  He’d placed it on the hotel room’s countertop where he could either grab it easily or ignore it completely.

He chose not to reflect on that fact that the old, patched earpiece was carefully tucked into his pocket where he’d hear it instantly.

Bond picked up the new earpiece and slipped it easily into his ear, dripping blood on the floor but not caring because it was linoleum.  “Bond,” he said reflexively, out of courtesy mostly, because whoever was on the other line doubtlessly knew whom they were addressing.  What he added after that was equally unnecessary, “If this is about my time-frame, I’d ask you to keep in mind that, for some odd reason, MI6 did not share their strict schedule with Mr. Genovan and his friends.”

Unexpectedly, it was Silva whose voice floated into Bond’s ear, a melodious chortle, “James, James, James – stuck in the chicken coop now, are you?”

“Well, you could say that,” Bond admitted under his breath while moving about the room.  He wasn’t known for sitting still, and he definitely wanted to have a quick shot of something alcoholic before he went to work on his wounded arm.  “I’d be out of this coop quicker if I didn’t have people talking to me,” he pointed out.

Silva never took a hint, although he always saw the opportunity.  “Ahh!  Always such a sharp tongue, James.  Would you be talking like this to Mother, too, if she were the one in your ear?”

“If you’re asking that, you obviously have never overheard our conversations before.”

“Would that I had, James, would that I had.  But – back to business.  Did you hear we found the hiding place of this Q of yours?” Silva said unexpectedly but as calmly as a summer’s day.

Completely ignoring the ‘yours’ part, Bond suddenly stiffened from heel to spine.  “What?” he snapped in the voice that most people quickly got out of the way for.  Suddenly the burning pain of his arm was nothing but an inconsequential sting that didn’t even ping on his radar.

“Oh, we didn’t catch our little hacker,” Silva was quick to dismiss, and the whiplash of the conversation was just about enough to make Bond sit down abruptly on the coffee-table.  “But there was enough trouble left in his wake that dear Mumsy is still busy.  Hence my lovely self giving you a courtesy call – thought you’d like to hear what was going on.”

Bond was often considered as nothing more than hired muscle attached to an eerily accurate gun, but he was somewhat more cunning that most people realized.  Right now, his brain was calculating quickly, and when he spoke again, he did so calmly.  “You never make social calls,” he stated.

The curling Cheshire smile was almost visible despite the miles that separated them.  “So quick to judge.”

“No, quick to think.  I repeat: you never make social calls.”

Bond always stuck to his guns (literally, figuratively, lethally), and perhaps that was why Silva didn’t play games with him very often: it just wasn’t fun when he couldn’t mess with the 00-agent’s head.  The sigh was entirely too theatrical, but it meant that Silva was getting to the point as he dismissively continued, “It would seem that our brainy little nuisance is something of a riddler.  I thought you should know that a note was left addressed to you in the wake of Mr. Q’s escape.”

Still sounding bored and only slightly amused by all of this, Silva referred to the hacker as if looking down on him, and Bond felt the sudden, irascible urge to prick that pride a little.  “You know, they usually call the Quartermaster’s of MI6 Q,” he pointed out as silkily he knew how.

Silva was too good to growl, but Bond knew what bristling sounded like even through an earpiece.  “Very funny, James, now do you want me to read your mail to you or not?  You appear to have a fan in the seedy underbelly of the hacking world, and M is hoping you can understand his writing.”

As curious as this was making Bond, something else was making him more curious.  “What is keeping everyone so busy that you’re playing courier pigeon?”

Mostly, Bond had just wanted to call Silva a pigeon – obviously, the long day was making Bond irritable and insufferable all at once, something that M usually had to deal with – but this time it was Silva who just let it all slide off.  “Oh, while MI6 was trying to close its jaws around Caesar and his cronies, one clever boy was apparently ripping databases to shreds.  I was, sadly, still out of town, so I just got back in time to marvel at what a good job he did.  Apparently, threatening a rabid hacker has about the same effect as threatening a rabid dog – it bites.”

‘ _I bet he did_ ,’ Bond marveled, feeling a twitch of fear worm through his gut.  He remembered well the constant unease and fear that had flowed through the scratchy, patched earpiece now in his pocket, the wariness that fluttered on just this side of panic even when just talking with Bond through a cellphone that Bond couldn’t even track.  If MI6 had caught Q when he’d had his hands on a computer, there was no telling what damage he’d have done in an effort to keep himself safe.  Bond could not see Q and MI6 ever settling their differences peaceably at this rate.  “Any permanent damage?” Bond made himself ask, and he put in ‘permanent’ because he was sure there was some damage – Q was too good not to draw blood when he lashed out, at least in the world of computers.

Silva made one of those musical hums that stood in for a shrug across the line.  “Nothing that cannot be fixed.”  Bond could hear the self-satisfied grin.  “After I’m done relaying this message to you, I’ll step in and play God and all will be well!”

Resisting the urge to snort in derision – it would either set Silva off or encourage him – Bond just retorted, “What message?  What does it say?”

“It was just a scrap of paper, left so that it couldn’t be missed.  It’s the content that has even myself stumped.”  And Silva began to read it off.

Bond went still, listening very carefully but also feeling as though the world had slowed.  Up until now, he’d heavily doubted that this was really a message from Q – Q, who wouldn’t even trust Bond enough to tell him the time of day.  But as he listened, there was no doubt.

It was all written out like one of the mental targeting puzzles that Bond had sketched out when Q had been falling apart on the phone.

“Does it mean anything?” Silva asked, sounding entirely too curious.

“Nothing,” Bond lied with perfect aplomb, and then lied again, “I’ve got to get off the line.  I’m bleeding all over the floor and duty calls.”  With that, he turned the earpiece off, and after a pause, replaced it with the other one, which was frustratingly, uselessly silent.

Pulling his shirt back on, Bond strode out of the hotel room.  The blood on the linoleum could wait.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I promised happiness in either this chapter or the next...aaaaand obviously I did not have it in this chapter. So in the next, I promise more happy Bond-Q-ness, even if I have to type A TON!!! So keep your ears pricked!


	6. One Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond finally gets Q to give him the information he needs: just a few words.  
> A location.  
> And that's all that Bond needs to do some much delayed search-and-rescuing. 
> 
> In which Bond finally gets to hunt Caesar and his men like the dogs they are, and Q (almost) gets rescued. 
> 
> You can argue about the almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for a very belated NaNoWriMo! It was a rough evening - I have fish that I love dearly (even though I have had them all of...a week?) and two of them died rather violently. So I type. Because stories go on.

Bond was no closer to wrapping up his affairs in France but was _much_ closer to popping a metaphorical gasket when a soft, familiar voice finally came to his ear: “Bond?”

Pacing the hotel room as he had been since he’d gotten back from the airport - a record trip back to England that M would have disapproved of had Bond bothered to tell her - Bond wasted no time in preliminary chit-chat this time. “Q, tell me why I am holding a syringe of blood right now in my mini-fridge?”

“Um…” It was obvious that now Q had been set back a bit. Fair was fair: so had Bond. Although back in Paris now so that he wouldn’t put his job at risk anymore, the sudden race to follow Q’s cryptic instructions had frazzled Bond – finding the pot of gold at the end of that fractured little rainbow had unsettled the 00-agent even more. Q finished with rather more eloquence than he had any right to have, “I assume that you got my message then? You followed the instructions to the house on Westbank?”

“The empty house on Westbank,” Bond corrected, “The empty house in which I found nothing but a blood-filled needle. Do you think my imagination lacks references to gore?”

Belatedly, Bond realized that he was going too far, or at least going too far in a very sharp tone: he could hear how Q’s breathing had very quietly picked up, but at the same time was quieter, meaning that Q was pulling back from the phone. Bond couldn’t help it, though! He was already wound tighter than a violin-string about this whole business with Q, and this sudden treasure hunt with its unexplained, incarnadined outcome hadn’t helped. Sighing gustily, Bond collapsed back onto a chair, forcing himself to take a mental step back and calm down. “All right: I followed your message like you obviously wanted, and because nobody else could understand it.” The whole thing had been written precisely like some sort of trajectory equation, appealing to Bond’s mind as a gunman and field agent, only instead of aiming at a target, Q’s words had aimed him at a location. Few people’s minds worked that way, ensuring that only 007 could understand. “Can you tell me why you had me do that?”

Bond’s more civilized tone did the trick, and the voice in Bond’s ear came back again. “It’s…” Q started, obviously picking his words with wary precision, finally deciding on, “I need you to test that blood for something.”

The blond agent’s brows lowered. Without any more hesitation, he said, “This is your blood, isn’t it?”

There was no denial, but the softer tones of someone who has lowered their head; Bond could imagine Q looking down and picking at the hem of his pant-leg, or idly following a seam along the blankets beneath him. “Yes, it is.”

“And the needle…”

“It's the same one they shot me up with, all right?” Q’s voice had grown tense and sharp, cornered. When last cornered, Q had done a lot of damage, but he didn’t have a computer with him now. “It was the only means readily available, and will serve a purpose anyway – you should be able to more easily identify just what they’ve been drugging me with.”

The brows that had lowered now shot up towards Bond’s hairline, but he recovered quickly to ask, “You don’t know what you’re addicted to?”

He expected another explosion of pique, but instead heard a hand being shakily and tiredly pushed through tangled hair, or against tired eyes behind familiar glasses. “I don’t want to talk about this,” Q said in a small, small voice. He was shutting down. “I just want this to be over…”

Very few people saw Bond being gentle. On a mission, the women he bedded did, but many of them were just targets in the end, and were betrayed; Q was one of the first to get sincerity behind the gentleness. “You could tell me where you are,” Bond coaxed in a voice as low as the thunder of a distant, rolling storm.

For the first time, Q didn’t immediately fight against that prompt. He seemed to be listening to Bond’s voice as if it were a tether, a tether to sanity or maybe to hope. “How would that even work?” he scoffed, but it was halfhearted, and for the first time Bond felt a surge of hope himself at the thought of Q finally letting him help. “As soon as I do that, I get MI6 swarming all over the place. I don’t blame you; I just know that that is how the world works.” Bond drew in breath to reply and the hacker interrupted sadly, “And don’t even try to tell me that MI6 has changed its mind about hating me. I ripped up their systems just yesterday, and that’s only half of the damage I’ve done.”

Bond released his words as a low, faintly miffed growl, unable to argue with that last assertion. While he hadn’t been in contact with Silva or MI6 in general since Silva had delivered Q’s message, it had been obvious for a long time that MI6, out of necessity, had categorized Q under the same category as terrorists and nuclear missiles.

That made Bond’s brain work a little harder, but he had always been a man for finding his way around obstacles – one did not gain the reputation he did purely by shooting well. Very slowly, tasting the words and wondering how bitter they would be if he had to swallow them later, the 00-agent hazarded, “What if I were to bring you in?”

“I’d still end up in the same place, Bond. And while I don’t think that a maximum security holding cell would faze me much, the eventual execution does.”

“No,” Bond argued, “I mean, what if I brought you in and kept an eye on you myself?” He heard Q gasp, a small sound, and pressed on, “MI6 need not be involved. Sometimes they are happier if they aren’t.” The last made him sport an ironic grin.

“I… That…!” Q was stuttering now, badly enough that Bond instinctively worried that he was suffering from the drugs he’d been forced to take for so long; it was impossible for Bond to forget just how ill-looking the addict permanently was. For MI6, seeing only the massive-scale chaos that Q could cause over cyberspace, it was easy to think of the man behind it all as being some sort of titan. This was part of the reason that Bond, more firmly by the second, thought his plan of keeping Q separate from MI6 to be a good plan – because MI6 simply didn’t know Q like he did.

Q was just stunned, however, and eventually got his tongue under control, “That’s not possible. You’re an agent – you report to-”

“M and I have an understanding that occasionally includes me not telling her everything.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Q deadpanned, “And M is okay with this?”

Bond grinned. “It makes her furious.”

“Then I fail to see how your plan is remotely feasible.”

“Q.”

“What?”

Bond was serious again, and said with all soberness, “You are running out of other options.” When the silence stretched on, stark and painful, Bond forged ahead, “Q, can you trust me?”

When the answer came, it was in a small and miserable voice, “I don’t know.”

And that was the crux of it. Q hadn’t been given enough reason in his mind to trust Bond, and Bond hadn’t been given the opportunity to prove it. It was a pointless cycle that Q had to be too smart to miss, but was stubbornly holding onto; it made Bond burn with frustration.

“I’m going to finish up my mission here in Paris,” 007 stated flatly.

This elicited a defeated sigh. “I understand,” Q accepted.

“I’ll send your blood on to MI6 tonight, though. I’ll make up some lie about where it came from.”

“Thank you,” was the painfully contrite reply, and Bond could hear Q curling in on himself and preparing to hang up.

Bond got in the last word, though: “And then I’m going to find where they’re keeping you before MI6 knows that I’m done here in Paris. And if you really have read my file, you’ll know that arguing with me is pointless.” Bond allowed himself a small, grim, wolfish smirk. “I’m the determined type. Now: Where. Are. You.”

The bold, blatant promise and the equally bold command finally had the intended result. Almost out of reflex, Q’s lips finally moved and let slip some of that information he’d been guarding so tightly: “The warehouse on twenty-six and third, below ground level. For as long as we stay here.”

~^~

Bond finished up his mission with a kind of ruthless efficiency that was unheard of even in him; had MI6 been privy to his sudden forward leap in progress, they would have been shocked and amazed and even possibly afraid for his sanity. Bond was perfectly fine, though – he was just on a tight schedule.

Eli T. Genovan was apprehended, and to slow the grapevine of information back to MI6, Bond turned him over to the local authorities with only the minimum of explanation, saying nothing of his connections to MI6 and nearly getting arrested simply out of principle. Bond was five kinds of dangerous, and maybe everyone sensed that. Fortunately, he was also seven kinds of cunning, and slipped out like smoke under the door – only with considerably more collateral damage and noise. Bond did very little quietly, but at least no bodies piled up.

He’d been keeping his reports to MI6 vague, and only reported in when badgered, and often not even then. However, he never turned off his link to MI6 – because he still had the results of the drug test to wait on. True to form, MI6 was efficient, though, and it was a day after putting Genovan in a nice anonymous cell that one of M’s underlings (Bond had carefully routed the blood sample so that it wouldn’t catch the attention of anyone higher up on the food-chain, just in case) popped up in Bond’s ear. By then, he was back in the country again, and digested the information calmly. It was truly a unique drug, and Bond felt the low fire of anger burn hotter in his chest as he thought of what it was putting Q through. Q, for his part, had remained silent, which didn’t surprise Bond. From what he knew of Q so far, it felt like the reaction of someone who is already afraid that they’d said too much, and now simply clammed up… but will also wait to see what happens. It was a neutral reaction geared towards self-preservation, like an animal waiting out a possible storm, and Bond couldn’t blame the hacker one bit.

Obviously, finding the location was easy. Bond as a person wanted to charge in and tear the place apart right then, too, but Bond as an agent watched it from a neighboring building instead, eyes cold and calculating as the sights on his gun. Q had hinted that he might be moved, and at first, there was so little activity around the old warehouse that Bond thought they already had. Another week had passed, after all, every day of which had increased the impatient itch under Bond’s skin. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but he was attached to Q, and right now wanted nothing more than to see the thin young man safely ensconced in his flat, where anything threatening or deadly would have to get through Bond and his security measures first to do anything to the hacker. Bond had also sent a carefully worded request to MI6 again, this time asking for something to counteract the ‘illicit substance(s)’ in the blood sample he’d sent. Caesar would not be getting Q back after Bond got him, and neither would anyone else, if Bond himself could take care of him.

Bond was a curious mix of an agent: he liked to plan but was just as happy doing things off-the-cuff. Silva was the same. It was probably what made them both the best – spontaneous enough to be unpredictably dangerous, yet thoughtful enough to be nigh unstoppable if given the chance. The difference was, Silva was a man of extremes, often doing one or the other so fully that he was likened to a poorly-made bomb: as liable to kill the maker as to kill the victim.

With his glacial blue eyes and panther stillness, Bond was more balanced. And right now, that balance made him as dangerous as any predator.

It was dark, and Bond had been watching the warehouse for a careful twenty-four hours that had started pretty much as soon as he’d entered the country. The lack of sleep didn’t bother him. He’d only stopped by his flat long enough to pick up some weapons and something to eat, being careful all the while not to show up on any camera nearby that MI6 might have been watching along the way.

Remembering Q’s condition when he’d last seen him face to face, he’d picked up a few other things as well. Bond never did anything by halves, and he sure never did things twice. He was going in to get the hacker just once, and woe-betide anyone who stood in his way.

In that gloaming stretch of dusk, where day and night collided and welcomed in the shadows, Bond left his hiding place and got to work.

He slipped up alongside the building, avoiding the main door in favor of a side one that he’d picked out earlier. It was obscure enough to be less guarded or watched, yet close enough to appeal to the impatient side of Bond that just wanted to barge in and finish this. The door, predictably, was locked, and impatient-Bond won, leading to Bond kicking the door open. A normal person it could have withstood: a 00-agent with a poor mood and no-holds-barred temperament was another matter entirely.

The amount of noise didn’t bother the blonde-haired agent much. He’d gleaned by the slim gap under the door that the lights beyond were either off or dimmed, and there was no streetlamp near enough to shed any light once the door was opened. The looming building next door blocked off the moon’s light. Already accustomed to the dark, Bond stalked right in, footsteps sure and quick and immediately sliding to the side so as not to silhouette himself even in the meager greyness behind him. There were already sporadic shouts of alarm from within, but Bond just let them bounce off his ears like so much background noise – no one was saying anything important.

Bond had found schematics of the building before he’d even finished up on his official mission in Paris, using his rank at MI6 to get into the information unopposed. He’d narrowed down just where Q might be, and focused now on the route to get there, the mental map in his head flawless. Computers gave him a headache, but memorization was second nature to a 00-agent of Bond’s caliber.

The first person that met up with 007 collapsed gasping, a combination punch first to the stomach and then to his jaw stunning him. Almost as an afterthought, Bond’s knee hit the man’s face on the way down, snuffing the last inkling of consciousness out. Bond had a gun with a silencer, but this was still quieter and better, and there was power to be found in moving like a wraith.

The only light was from distant, disparate rooms, as no one had flipped switches yet. Bond made good use of that pervasive darkness, in his element as he slipped down hallways with purpose and nearly fearless speed. As willing as he was to kill people, he avoided more than he confronted, and it wasn’t until five minutes had passed that he shot his first person.

After that, the game heated up.

~^~

Q was sitting in his room, another fishbowl that his shattering mind had accepted. His nerve-endings were filled up with sparks and he could still feel the needle; Q’s dazed eyes stared distractedly at the small hole in his arm, leaking blood like a blazing thread. His brain felt detached again, and would have been screaming on the inside, but for the fact that he could hear shouting and muffled gunshots in the building.

Burns was still in the room. He’d been the one to release Q from his misery, satisfying the craving with the bite of a needle. Q’s eyes were as unfocused as if he weren’t wearing glasses, his muscles lax as he leaned bonelessly against the wall, but he could see that the man was nervous.

Despite how threatening the sounds should have been, Q didn’t feel any nervousness at all. Burns must have noticed, because he turned to look back into the room and growl, “What are you looking at?”

Q just shook his head, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good to explain. “I’m only the hacker,” was all he said in an accepting sigh. The storm had come. All he could do was weather it and see what became of him on the other side. He was a puppet now with his strings cut, but his mind, in its prison beneath his skin, was for once watching patiently. Waiting.

Fear crackled under his skin, but still Q almost smiled. ‘ _A very dangerous agent is coming_ ,’ he wanted to say, but refused to – everyone would find out soon enough. He still didn’t trust that the man wouldn’t just shoot him, too, but at least this was all going to change in the next half hour. One way or another.

It was a good thing, too, because his phone had died again. Up until now, he’d either stolen chargers (a huge risk that he’d been lucky with so far) or had jury-rigged his own, which was difficult for Q – and would have likely been impossible for everyone else. His stolen phone wouldn't take much more either way.  It had started to feel like an extension of his body, but now it was cut off. Its usefulness had come to an end soon anyway; he would very likely be talking to Bond in person very soon.

Q’s smile was weak and sickly and fearful, but it danced at the edge of his mouth nonetheless.

~^~

Caesar was nowhere to be found, and if Bond were to admit to feelings of vengeance, he’d have admitted that there was no man he’d rather kill. He’d killed others, however, as they had gotten in his way. A few had even had the chance to shoot at him. None that tried once got a chance to do so again – that was Bond’s motto: ‘That which does not kill me does not get a chance to try again’ or, more simply, ‘That which does not kill me gets a bullet and stops breathing.’ Thanks to this belief, Bond moved forward like a wave, unstoppable and barely ever even slowing. His brain was on high alert and his eyes were ever-moving, even before he got down below ground level and he began actively hunting for where his goal was.

Finding Q turned out to be easier than Bond had anticipated. His path had built up enough bodies to dissuade a lot of people from following him, and Caesar’s group had never been large – that meant that, now, Bond was a big shark in a rather empty pond. The few other little fishes still willing to swim with him were probably armed and trying to hunt him by now, but that was simply to be expected. What it meant was that there were fewer distractions as he moved down the darkened hall. Even better, there was only one light on, which shed splinters of light everywhere else without truly relieving the shadows.

The other rooms that Bond passed were empty. That narrowed down his choices considerably but also made his nerves begin to wind up with unease.

His unease was well-founded. Bond had been keeping his eyes open for Caesar, wanting to shoot him, but he’d been keeping his eyes out for Burns, too, because he remembered that the man was more dangerous than the rest.

He’d found Burns, and right now the man was very dangerously holding Q in front of him like a shield.

“Whoever you are, if you want your hacker in one piece, you’ll come into the room slowly with your hands up,” Burns growled, pressing his gun against Q’s ribs, and this time it wasn’t just intimidation: this time the gun was held close so that there was no chance of missing should Burns press down on the trigger. “And with your gun nowhere near your hand.”

Q didn’t look good. He’d been thin before, and Bond had thought he knew how terrible he looked when drugged – but that had been nothing. The tousled figure was barely big enough to even provide Burns with ample cover, and the hacker’s eyes were so glazed behind his glasses and fall of unkempt hair that they hardly seemed alive, much less coherent. Burns had a vicious hold on one of his arms, but that was all that was keeping Q upright. It was entirely possible he wasn’t even aware of the gun as it pressed into his prominent ribs.

Despite how small his shield was, Burns was smart enough that he had his head and heart securely blocked by that frail form. Bond’s teeth were gritted as he remained poised, out of sight in the shadows with his gun still raised but also unmoving. He hated standoffs like this, and felt the sickly coil of fear in his belly tighten.

“Come on!” snapped Burns, deadly even though he had to be afraid – perhaps more deadly because he was afraid. “I know you’re there, and I know that you want yourself a hacker.”

“He doesn’t want a hacker,” Q said, very softly but very surely, proving that he wasn’t unaware after all.

Q’s words were what undid Burns. Reflexively, shocked, the man turned his head to try and stare at the dazed addict, and that small motion was just enough to shift his head – and that was all the prompt Bond needed to pull the trigger.

Two shots rang out.

And both Burns and Q jerked and toppled to the floor.

~^~

Q’s ears were ringing, but at least the limpness in his limbs was familiar; every time he was drugged, it felt like they unstrung him. It was not altogether a new experience to find himself sprawled on the floor, aware that his limbs refused to respond. The concussive noise in his ears was new, though. He blinked, blurrily watching the floor come into focus. There was red spreading across it that had him drawing in a shaky breath.

Suddenly, a figure was moving towards him, faster than his brain was ready for. The unfocused wariness in Q’s mind focused into real fear like brush catching fire. He just barely managed to get an elbow beneath him before a hand grabbed his face by the jaw, ignoring his struggles.

“…Q! Q, bloody stop it, I’m not trying to kill you!” Q’s ears finally cleared enough to hear, Bond’s familiar tones sharp with anxiety.

Startled, brain still hazy, Q stopped fighting long enough to just blink and stare at the familiar, glowering face, and then Bond was shoving a canteen up to his face and Q was choking on something.

“Just drink it, Q,” Bond snapped, clearly not in a patient mood.

Already Q’s world was sharpening and the detached numbness of his limbs had become a tide of pins and needles. “What in the world was in that?!” the hacker demanded, too startled by his increasing alertness to care that Bond was pulling him to his feet – feet that were willing to hold him again.

“Something that will keep you moving, for an hour at least. I don’t envy you the crash afterwards, but the nap will probably do you good,” responded Bond briefly, hauling Q upright and then looking him over critically.

Q looked down at himself, too, seeing all the blood and wondering if it could be his if he didn’t feel any pain. He saw the puddle of blood on the floor and started to follow it back, wondering what Burns was doing…

Bond’s hand grabbed Q’s chin and forced his head back forward again. The 00-agent’s eyes were like ice, as intimidating as the glacial peaks of mountains. “His bullet missed you,” he said flatly by way of explanation, adding without an ounce of remorse, “but mine didn’t miss him. Now do you want out of here or not?” Before Q could fumble with a reply – his eyes were as wide as dinner-plates behind his glasses –Bond growled, rolled his eyes, and took Q in hand. “Forget that – we’re leaving whether you want to or not. I’ve come too far to just let you disappear again. Now stay close to me, or I’ll tie you to my belt-loop.”

Calling Bond bossy would usually be incorrect, but right now he was totally okay with being more bossy than M, Silva, and all of MI6 combined. He’d found Q, and right now he wasn’t going to lose him.

~^~

Q was remarkably quick when the drugs messing up his body were temporarily nullified, and the fact that the concoction Bond had given him was a close relative to adrenalin and caffeine meant that Q was running on high-octane fuel for now. When he should have been collapsing he was running instead, keeping obediently within Bond’s wake because that was the safest place he could imagine.

Bond moved smoothly, still like a shark in water. Gun leading, he cut his way forward as if every footstep had been planned years in advance, never a pace wrong and never a glint of hesitancy in him. He was a compact missile of muscle and bone, and Q was simply towed along, neither touched nor touching. Sometimes when Bond stopped suddenly, Q would stumble into him, but Bond would barely grunt at the sudden contact of hands against his back. Q would quickly realign himself, becoming Bond’s smaller, more fragile shadow.

“Good, no one is here,” Bond eventually mused under his breath as they reached the silence of the top floor, “Apparently shooting about five of them got the point across-”

A shot rang out and Bond hadn’t even raised his gun, and Q yelped in fear even as the 00-agent suddenly jerked with a roar of pain. Q wasn’t hurt – the liquid now in his system had him alert and aware, enough so that he could easily catalogue his own health. Bond was, though. In fact, the man had dropped down onto one knee almost instantly, woozily leaning against the nearby wall as he gasped through his teeth. His free hand gripped his right thigh, and even in the dimness, Q knew that he was seeing blood.

Never had the sight of something scared Q so much in his life, not even when he’d first become aware of Bond pressing a gun to his face, or the first time he’d realized that Caesar controlled his life because Caesar had him hooked on a drug he couldn’t name. The sight of blood pumping out beneath Bond’s hands – Bond, who’d been a force of nature up until now, unstoppable in Q’s eyes – made Q’s world narrow and grow cold.

Bond was shaking, the pain putting him into shock, and then Caesar stepped out of the pitch blackness of the room across the hall.

Q didn’t even think, something that he’d never done before in his life. He simply reached forward, pulled the gun from Bond’s weakened grip, and brought it up in both hands to aim it at Caesar.

He pulled the trigger before Caesar could even register surprise at his pet turning on him. And then he pulled the trigger again and again until he ran out of bullets.

“Q. Q!” A hand reached up and grabbed Q’s wrist, making him jump with a terrified yelp and twist. This time the gun was aimed right at Bond and clicked as he pulled the trigger on an empty chamber.

Bond just grimaced, pain glazing his eyes a little bit too much for him to be properly horrified by Q’s behavior. Q was, for once, in the perfect position to be mortified, and gave up the gun without a fight. “Nice shot,” Bond actually commented while Q just stood, stared, and wondered when his world was going to implode. Again and again he saw himself aiming the gun at 007 and pulling the trigger with about as much hesitancy as an avalanche. He was only jerked out of his horror when Bond tried to stand up and nearly failed. There was quite a lot of blood.

Swearing in enough languages to be impressive, Bond managed to get to his feet, swaying. “Not letting you hold a gun again,” Bond grunted, holstering his weapon. Then he nearly tottered, and Q had to press against him and the wall to keep the larger man from falling. Almost without realizing it, Q was crying, silently and without truly understanding why as he was pressed up against Bond’s side.

“Hey, let’s just get to the car, hm?” came Bond’s voice, raspy from quick, tight breathing but otherwise gentle for someone who’d just had his own gun turned on him. And for someone who’d just had a bullet put through his leg. “Then it’ll be all right.”

“You’re bleeding enough that I rather doubt that.”

“And you’re alert enough to drive, so I’m still saying we’re on top of this,” was the reply, full of force but not entirely insincere cheer. He pushed himself to move a step before cursing again, this time stopping to yank off his belt and wrap it around his thigh as a quick, rough tourniquet, snarling colorfully the whole while. Still, despite the show of irritation and vigor, he looked pale, and his right pant-leg was liberally soaked with blood. Q, too smart for his own good, knew that a shot like that could kill a person with blood-loss.

“Come on. Before someone else who hates us tries to kill us, I want to get out of here, and I’m not leaving you behind,” Bond ordered, making himself move. Q tried to help, but Bond shook him off; seeing the hurt expression on the smaller man’s narrow face, Bond softened the blow by joking, “If I fell over, I’d crush you. Now, if I give you directions to my apartment, can you drive us there?”

“So long as it is not a stick-shift.”

Bond snorted, amused, and somehow managed to get to the door. He’d passed Caesar’s large, unmoving body with nothing more than a cold glare and a curl of his lip, while Q had darted his eyes away and simultaneously slipped around to Bond’s other side, the far side from the body of his previous captor.

‘Do I have another captor now?’ he wondered.

~^~

Bond was aware of how nervy Q was, quiet and filled with the buzz of tense nerves and that wary edge of distrust. Still, mostly Bond was just aware that the bullet in his leg had most definitely hit some very important things, and perhaps he’d underestimated Caesar. The man was dead now, but he’d sure managed to leave a parting blow that Bond would remember…if he survived it. Bond was having a very hard time shaking this off. Bullet wounds were like that.

By the time he reached his car, he was aware that Q was still there, but very little else. He knew that he was slurring as he gave directions, and he pretty much collapsed into the passenger seat. Nope, the backseat. Everything was blurry around the edges, and all he could think was that it would be a pretty poor end to his record to say that he, James Bond, 007, arguably one of the best agents alive, had been killed by a shot to the leg by a two-bit, nobody-criminal. Silva would laugh, forget that it was a funeral.

“We’re not going there,” Q’s shaky but very determined voice came back from the driver’s seat. If he focused, Bond could see the smaller man’s painfully thin hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles white.

“Say that one more time,” Bond growled after a moment, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Only say it like a sensible person. Something like: yes, we are going to your flat now.”

“If we do that, you’ll bleed out on your own carpet. Is that what you want?!” Q snapped, and the engine roared to life. The addict was shaking, but it couldn’t have been because of the drugs in his system, because Bond had given him something for that, however temporarily.

The frustrating part was, Bond couldn’t remember if he even replied. Things got disturbingly dark and fuzzy around the edges, and that was annoying.

~^~

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes later that he realized that he’d lost the argument.

How did he know he’d lost?

Because he was in a hospital with one of those annoying hospital gowns with all manner of IVs hooked up to him and Q nowhere in sight.

“A good Samaritan dropped you off,” the nurse said, smiling faltering in the face of Bond’s increasing glare, “He said he found you shot in an alley. Your wallet’s gone, so you must have been robbed. Is that was happened, Mr…?”

“Smith,” Bond said, because that lie was easy. He asked in a tone like ice, “Just where is this ‘good Samaritan’?”

“Um, I don’t know, actually. I believe he left.”

Bond thumped his head back against the bed, wishing his tolerance to morphine wasn’t so high so he could just drown in it. At this point, he was down a wallet, probably his car, and a world-class hacker named Q.

The addict was in the wind again, and Bond couldn’t tell if he was more angry or sad.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another cliffhanger! :D


	7. Marmalade, Pullovers, and Pasta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond meets up with Q sooner than he thinks, and starts to wonder just how difficult this brainiac might be to take care of. Q wonders the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this yesterday, but didn't quite get finished! Sorry for the delay!  
> But now you guys finally get some Bond AND Q time - in the same room!!! I also kinda used this chapter to explain Q's eccentric sense of taste, according to me ;)

Next came the tricky lies to MI6. Bond would have been fibbing if he said that this made him nervous – he actually lied to M quite often. It made both their lives easier, because in the end, M was not a field agent, and sometimes Bond had to do what he had to do.

Like return unannounced to England to rescue a drug-addicted super-hacker.

And then have said hacker escape again. Bond wasn’t sure what he’d do if he found Q again, but since the smaller man had stolen everything from his car to his gun, the encounter would likely include strangling… or at least a leash, since Q was entirely too difficult to keep hold of.

Temper simmering halfheartedly on the back burner, Bond easily told MI6 that he’d just finished up in Paris but had been shot. That surprised and slightly amused M, especially when she asked when he’d be out of the hospital.

Bond already was. Escaping a regular hospital really wasn’t that hard when he’d cut his teeth on Medical in MI6. Medical was used to dealing regularly with recalcitrant 00-agents who hated to just stay put and heal, but even they could usually only hold 007 for a week. Bond was out of this mundane hospital in under two days, stealing clothes like it was second-nature.

So Bond was given leave, despite his protests. Apparently having a bullet nearly break the bone of your leg was something that they gave you days off for. Being the active guy that he was, Bond hated leave, and only took it when he was nearly dead or actually declared dead (this had happened often enough to be funny). Just out of spite for being labeled an invalid, Bond waited until he was giving his report to one of M’s distant underlings before he gave the location of Genovan’s jail cell. Unless someone got really nosy, it wouldn’t surface that the man had been in jail considerably longer than Bond said he had.

With M’s sharp instructions to go home and get some rest, Bond limped his way to another taxi and growled out instructions. Careful despite all of the other troubles on his mind, he made sure that he jumped taxis often enough to shake off any tails. Still, his leg was throbbing enough that he conceded to being dropped off fairly close to his flat, knowing that he didn’t have enough morphine in his system to take an extended walk. Coming upon the familiar, all-but-deserted street that he called home, Bond paid the last taxi-driver and got out. He had enough pain-killers in his home to stock a small hospital himself, and was thinking cheerily of that as he got to the door. Without his wallet and the ID card in it, he had to resort to punching in numbers on a keypad like some sort of stranger… and as he did that, he truly began to think about that.

…His ID card, which usually let him into his flat…

…Q had it.

Bond grew alert despite his discomfort and finished punching in the code, hearing locks disengage and the door swing open as his large, calloused hand turned the knob. The security system in his house was very good, and even now, inconspicuous but very sensitive lights would be winking like small eyes in various rooms of the house, announcing the breach of security. It was a silent alarm, the kind that Bond liked, and he wondered now if anyone else would notice.

Because there was definitely someone in his house. He was increasingly sure who it was, too.

Trying to be quiet even though his right leg screamed when he moved it, Bond entered his flat and eased the door shut with his foot, his hands empty but open and ready. From here, he could see almost all of the living room, the edge of the attached kitchen area, and none of the bedroom. He scanned for anything out of the ordinary, and began finding only small things: he didn’t smell signs of cooked food, but could just see breadcrumbs and perhaps scent the faint whiff of marmalade; there was a blanket rumpled on the couch, and…

And besides the obvious clue of the light being on, that was all the evidence there actually was to hint that someone else was using Bond’s space.

More than a little bemused by this, Bond began limping slowly forward, further into his flat. His stance was still strong and sure, or as much as it could be with one leg nearly out of commission, and he no doubt looked a touch like a predator.

He surely looked enough like a predator that Q startled, from where he’d been standing with preternatural stillness in Bond’s kitchen. Still quite possibly dressed in the clothing he’d been wearing when Bond had last seen him, the hacker was in the back of the kitchen, and as Bond suddenly caught sight of him and turned, Q’s instincts flared and catapulted him right into fight-or-flight. With Bond blocking the exit from the kitchen, that actually meant that one skinny arm shot out and grabbed a knife, holding it inches off the counter but obviously ready to use.

“Easy, Q,” Bond said slowly, lifting his hands slowly, palm out, from his sides in an attempt to appear passive and unthreatening. The wild eyes that met his held recognition, but not trust. Bond just kept talking, shifting his weight painfully to take some of the weight off his right leg. “I’m not the intruder here, remember?” He even managed to sound faintly and gently teasing.

The faintly wry tone managed to get through to Q, and his wiry frame relaxed visibly even as embarrassment flickered across his face. He lowered the knife, and Bond walked forward slowly, hiding the fact that he was actually watching Q’s every move in case he went for a weapon again.

“You hardly look like you’ve even been living here for – what? – almost three days?” Bond observed, striving for levity.

Q shifted uncomfortably, hands at his sides again, and belatedly Bond realized that his increasing proximity – compounded with his much greater size – had to be making the smaller man nervous. But Q, eyes flicking left to right while still focusing on the floor, cleared his throat and got his voice together, “That was the point. I mean-” A long, thin hand briefly indicated the house in general, around and past Bond. “-It’s not my house. I’m just… breaking into it.” He winced at his own sincerity.

Bond smirked dryly. “It’s not breaking in if you have the card to get in the door,” he allowed.

Finally, Q looked up at him, the most humorous look of bewilderment on his face. What he said after wasn’t nearly as funny: “What card?”

Bond’s brows involuntarily lowered over his blue eyes. Then realization hit him and he rocked his head back with a sigh of resignation; giving in, he also leaned his left hip against the counter heavily as he asked a question of his own, “How did you get in?” Because apparently Q had figured out where Bond had lived, but not that one of the cards in Bond’s wallet was a hidden key to the apartment’s security system.

Looking embarrassed, leaning against another edge of the ‘U’-shaped counter, Q ran hesitant fingers back through his overlong hair. “Er… I believe that the most plebian term would be that I hacked in, but I can explain exactly how I did it if you want.”

Bond muttered something unforgivable under his breath in sheer exasperation and was glad when Q didn’t interpret it. This was getting more frustrating by the minute. “Okay,” Bond gathered himself, trying to ignore that one skinny twig had managed to bypass all of his security codes, “Okay. We’ll talk about that later. Right now… I’m just glad you’re here. You came straight here, right? Where’s my car?”

“Parked two blocks over and around the corner,” was the unhesitant answer, “I figured that way no one would notice that I was here.”

It was a smart move, and Bond nodded approval. Q was eyeing his leg with something like squeamishness and a lot like worry. “Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?”

“You change topics a lot,” Bond deflected with an oblique look, straightening back up and turning to the cupboards.

The motion made Q visibly nervous, and he looked around, as if expecting someone from Caesar’s gang to come in. He still looked as underfed as an abandoned dog, which begged the question: “What have you been eating? All I can smell is marmalade.”

“Well…” Q tried to defend himself, leaning back against yet another counter (there were only three edges to the U, and Q kept picking ones that were distant from Bond if possible) and looking away uncomfortably, “This is not my house, and it’s not my food-”

“Q, there’s no possible way a person as smart as you could miss the food.” Bond opened the nearest cupboard to reveal not only cans but a can-opener as well, a whole stash of easily preserved foods for when Bond sporadically returned home.

“Of course I could,” Q snapped back weakly, to Bond’s surprise. 007 turned to find Q’s eyes looking at him, beseeching him to understand without, perhaps, truly understanding himself. “I just… this is not – any of it – mine. It’s yours. And I broke in. So…” He trailed off lamely, eyes tracking around the house. Following that line of sight, Bond found, was strangely like being told a story in a new, silent language: he followed Q’s eyes to the jar of marmalade, and the crumbs of bread, a very simple, unobtrusive food that felt the least like raiding Bond’s stores; he saw the couch, with its one blanket, creating a bed without actually invading or even taking up much of Bond’s space; he saw everything else, untouched, as if Q hadn’t been here at all.

Bond looked back to Q in sudden, heart-wrenching understanding, although Q was looking away now, small and nervous. He wasn’t sure what to say – what did one say to a person who was so unused to having personal space that they were afraid of making anything their own? So Bond started where he could: he turned back to the kitchen and limped towards the stove. “Well, at least bread is better for you than the alcohol I usually get into,” he said with lazy brusqueness, as if this were perfectly normal. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Um… well…” Q started to reply, looking very out of his element.

Bond cast a look over his shoulder, eyeing the thin limbs, sharp angles, and almost gaunt features. He declared, “You know, I don’t care if you’ve eaten. You’re going to eat again. Do you like pasta?”

Q was so unused to this that he just remained silent, blinking as if not sure if he should bolt now or hope that he was somehow camouflaged against the counter.

“Pasta it is,” Bond grunted, then winced as his leg twinged more strongly. The morphine had totally worn off now. “Hey, Q, can you pass me that bottle of bourbon?” he asked, unable to mask a wince.

Bewildered but game to follow instructions, the hacker followed the indication of Bond’s outstretched finger, hefting the bottle before padding back to Bond on quiet bare feet. As Bond took the container – now that the painkiller was out of his system, he rather liked the idea of alcohol as a numbing alternative – he carefully but swiftly reached out and encircled one of Q’s wrists in his other hand. “Hey, Q,” he said softly, catching the other’s eyes when the hacker stiffened. Bond’s tone and his calm look served to make Q relax again, if only a fraction. Bond continued in a soft voice that just moved between them like a gentle touch, “I’ve got spare clothes in the bedroom closet. I can’t promise that anything will fit, but you should go grab yourself a new shirt and slacks, or something.” When it looked like Q would protest out of reflex, Bond pressed, squeezing the bony wrist as reassuringly as possible, “This is your home for now, all right, Q? You’re free to anything in it, and those clothes of yours are manky.”

The last remark had the desired effect: Q bristled with pride just a touch. Then deflated a bit when Bond smirked, showing that he was just teasing again. Slowly, reluctantly, Q smiled back. “Fine,” he said, extricating his wrist, and Bond watched as he left the room. He still walked around the house, it seemed, as if it were possibly full of enemies: Q looked around corners as he moved. “No one can get in here, Q,” Bond called after him, a hint of protective sternness in his voice – a promise, “Except you and me. You’re safe here, I told you that you would be.”

Blinking owlishly behind his glasses, Q seemed to take that in… a little bit. Bond knew that it would take a lot longer for the addict to believe it. Still, he nodded. Then he disappeared like a spooked rabbit into Bond’s room.

With a sigh, Bond turned back to the kitchen appliances. He was actually quite a good cook, along with a handful of other upper-class skills that he’d picked up in the various roles he’d had to play. Even if Q hadn’t been confining himself to bread and marmalade, it was possibly that cooking wouldn’t have been something he was good at – but Bond was. Taking a mouthful of bourbon (entirely too much; it burned down his throat; but it also numbed some of the nerve-endings in him), he started to focus on the simple, graceful task of cooking.

But he kept one ear cocked, unable to forget that he was sharing his house now, and sharing it with a companion who was about as skittish and unpredictable as a person could get.

~^~

Q came back out of Bond’s room quite quickly, as if afraid of invading space that wasn’t his for too long. Bond sighed, but figured that he was still making progress: Q was now out of his own wrinkled clothes and into something more… well, clean. Saying it was suitable would have been slightly accurate, but accurate included the fact that the clothing was monstrously too big. Not only was Q shorter than Bond by several centimeters, he was also a fraction of his size, and was swimming in the pair of grey sweatpants and the old pullover he’d found.

Bond craned his head from his post in the kitchen, peering at the choice in shirt. He didn’t remember owning that shirt. It must have been way at the bottom of the drawer, and for good reason: it was a truly unflattering shade of white-speckled burgundy, a color only occasionally found in clothing that has been put through the wash too many times, often with the wrong colored clothing as added company. Q had picked it, though, and he was wearing it comfortably, so that was what mattered. Actually, it looked as though he were hiding in it: he made no attempts to roll up the sleeves, and quite uninhibitedly crossed his arms around his chest, creating a seemingly impenetrable wall of baggy material.

It was honestly funny.

Bond turned back to the sauce he was making to hide his smirk, unsure how it would be received. His ears tracked the sounds of Q’s footsteps around the house, quietly investigating, as if he hadn’t actually done so until Bond was here granting wordless permission of some sort. He drifted into the kitchen once or twice, but never got very close. Bond was struck by the similarity to bringing back a new pet cat, and trying not to scare it as it slowly became accustomed to the new surroundings and decided whether it liked this new home.

So Bond kept his silence, deciding that his own taciturn nature might be beneficial to them both, at least for now.

~^~

Q wasn’t sure how to deal with Bond. He’d been so used to talking to him from great distances, just a voice in his ear (his in Bond’s, Bond’s in his), and now he felt bereft when he was finally in the same room. It was as if he’d lost something instead of gained. Unbeknownst to Bond, Q had been just nosy enough to dig up a phone-charger, and then had proceeded to find the most hidden plug in the whole flat, and now his phone was safely charging. Q didn’t know why he did this, because he surely had no one else he wanted to call, and Bond didn’t need him calling anymore, but he still felt the need to do it. It was like a security blanket he’d grown used to, and now couldn’t quite comprehend giving it up, as silly as that sounded.

Now, Q wanted nothing more to grab his phone and curl up in a dark corner with a desperation that nearly left him in a sweat. It was horrifying, how attached he was to old habits, and how out of his element he felt now that he’d escaped the need for them. Being in the room with such an obviously capable, dangerous person – no matter that person’s good intentions – was about as horrifying as standing at the edge of a cliff and leaning forward. Some feral part of Q wished he’d stayed in the kitchen, if only because there were knives there, and that would have evened the playing field a little.

Then he felt guilty, catching up to his rampant thoughts and seeing how ridiculous they were – or, at the least, how extremely barbaric. Bond hadn’t hurt him… yet… and there was no reason for Q to act so ungrateful.

Determined to at least be polite to show a sliver of his gratitude, Q shuffled into the kitchen, aware that his stomach was growling up a storm at just the smells. “Do you want any help?” Q asked tentatively.

Bond looked over his shoulder, raising one brow. His face looked slightly flushed and more relaxed around the edges than before. “Have you been drinking?” Q blurted.

The arched brow transformed into a crooked smirk. “If you’d had a bullet kiss your femur on its way through, you’d drink, too. Now, you can grab plates. This may as well be done, and if I drink any more on an empty stomach, I’ll start doing foolish things regardless of my tolerance.”

The flippant way that Bond talked – voice as unconcerned and smooth as the suits in his closet – always somehow caught Q off-guard, and he blinked as if coming out of a bit of a trance. It just seemed so unnatural for a man with so much deadliness to him to sound so idle and cultured all at once, to say nothing for the sense of humor that kept sneaking up on Q. “Sure,” he said, distracted because he was still watching the MI6 agent, partially wary and partially just bemused by the dichotomy of it all.

So, Q got out plates and silverware and glasses, and although he was nothing to brag about when it came to setting the table (living as he had hadn’t exactly given him time to practice even simple mundane skills), Bond just smiled with slight fondness as he brought the food over. He ignored Q’s embarrassed, nervous fidgeting, aware that Q’s sloppy placement of the cutlery might have been because the skinny addict was nearly drooling at the sight of food.

But when it came time to sit down and dish up, Q became self-conscious and nervous. He began fidgeting with his hands through his overlong sleeves, and suddenly blurted, “I’ll go wash my hands,” and scuttled away as if the food were going to bite him. Canny, sharp blue eyes narrowing, Bond watched him, the alcohol not dulling his senses enough yet for him to miss the fact that Q didn’t seem all that interested, really, in washing his hands. He just seemed to be wasting time, retreating to the kitchen now that Bond had moved out of it to the table by the living room.

Unaware that Bond was staring, Q fumbled around at the sink, skinny shoulders tense and twitching, rolling up his sleeves but watching the food with one eye. He looked as though he were a leggy dog, banished from the table, waiting patiently for the scraps he was more likely to get.

With that analogy came the realization that Q really did think that way, and Bond started limping back towards him with a sigh. Even with a bum-leg, Bond was indecently sneaky, and Q squeaked and jumped as the 00-agent came up behind him to put a hand on his shoulder. Trying his best to exude an aura of calmness, Bond just gave the shoulder a little leading tug, coaxing, “Come on. I’ve been stuck on hospital food, but you look like you’ve been eating crickets for most of your life. If you don’t come out here and eat, I’ll just bring it back in here and make you eat it.”

The combination of passive threats and light joshing got Q to withdraw his hands from the sink, ducking under Bond’s arm and back out of the kitchen again. His willingness to leave ‘Bond’s’ food alone was apparently as weak as his appetite was strong, because it took no more coaxing. A faint smile of smugness just curling up one side of his mouth, Bond more slowly returned to the table.

He’d made pasta, but was aware that Q was not likely to be used to such rich food, and therefore had done a pot of canned soup as well, and was glad to see that Q was portioning himself wisely. The pasta and sauce was too much to resist, however, and Bond chuckled involuntarily at the glassy-eyed look of lust in Q’s eyes when he looked at what was – for Bond – a very low-maintenance meal of spaghetti. Q shot him a look, clearly not understanding the joke, but then determinedly dished himself some noodles. At first, the dollop of sauce he put on was tentative and small – a beggar’s fare – until he remembered that Bond had invited him to eat, and he lost some of his reservations and put on two more spoons-full. If he ate it all, it would be a miracle (or would end in a night of vomiting as his tormented stomach rebelled), but the mutinously stubborn look in Q’s eyes said he didn’t care.

Because the table was about as formal as Bond got in his own house over meals, neither pulled up a chair. Bond simply filled his own plate (an impressive heap even compared to Q’s attempts at small-scale-gluttony, simply because Bond was bigger and ate more) and then shuffled over to the couch. He fished around in one of the hidden drawers in the coffee table in front of him, finding the painkillers that he wanted. He didn’t take them – tolerance or not, drugs and alcohol were not a safe combination – but felt reassured just to know that he had them once the bourbon ran out. Because of his profession, Bond had painkillers and first-aid materials stashed practically everywhere in his apartment.

Q had perched on the only other chair in the vicinity, still looking more than a little bit ridiculous in Bond’s larger clothes. It made him seem younger, and his hair bushier. He was pushing his food around his plate while staring at it.

“You don’t like it?” Bond pressed, eyes too watchful for their own good.

Q jumped at the sound of his voice and jerked his head up, belatedly registering the actual question. “Oh, no, it’s good. I just…” He stopped talking, looking acutely embarrassed by his own strange actions, aware of how odd he was acting and frustrated by his inability to stop or hide it.

Aware of all of this, Bond smoothly saved him further embarrassment. “You haven’t eaten for awhile,” he finished the sentence as if it were the most natural thing. Q nodded hurriedly. Bond was aware that it was not entirely a lie, but that the real truth of it was that Q was still nervous and totally unused to such large amounts of good food being given to him freely. Bond’s continued watching and his relaxed words coaxed Q to eat, though, and after the third spoonful of soup, Bond decided his work was done. Shrugging philosophically, he bent to his own meal with gusto, listening to Q’s more economical, swift bites. Not only did he pad around Bond’s apartment like a cat, but he ate like one, too, quickly and sensibly.

Bond still finished first. By now, his leg was a constant ache, but the presence of food in his stomach was a pleasant counterpoint, allowing him to relax with a sigh. As he leaned back into the couch, throwing his arms across the back, he realized that this was the first time he’d relaxed so completely. He was safe and finished with his mission, he was in his house, he was on the mend if not healthy, and he finally had Q safely in his custody. It was a liberating feeling.

The next few minutes were spent like that, Bond in a near doze, listening to the quiet sounds of Q fidgeting and eating. Bond slanted one eye open to see that Q unconsciously hunched over and around his plate as much as his thin frame would allow, ostensibly ‘defending’ it, and that made a pang of sadness twist in Bond’s chest. Still, Q did seem to be enjoying the meal, a look of avid interest in his bespectacled eyes. Bond wanted to tease and ask, “So I’m a good cook, am I?” but didn’t want to break the peaceful mood. He only started talking again when Q stopped eating with still a very large portion of food on his plate, and then the blond-haired man just spoke up to coax him to eat a bit more.

Strategically, Bond’s apartment had few windows, but it had enough for the ending of the day to be made clear by how the darkness pressed against the other side of the curtains. Q had eaten all that he could safely eat, and was looking almost relaxed. He hadn’t picked the most comfortable of chairs, but he was leaning back in it, blinking long, slow blinks that gave away drowsiness.

“Pajamas are in the second drawer,” Bond said unexpectedly.

Every time, Q seemed to either forget that Bond could talk, or that Bond was there at all, because he jumped and his head twitched up. His brain could then be visibly seen catching up to the influx of data and analyzing it as he remembered that he was sharing space with someone else. “Pardon?” was all the hacker could come up with as a response this time, though.

Bond was fine with that, simply shrugging, blue eyes never leaving Q’s face even as his signature half-smile curled at one side of his mouth, “It’s generally customary to sleep in different clothes than you spend your day in. Pajamas are in the second drawer in the bedroom, where you are free to sleep.”

Somehow, this seemed a little much for Q to take in, and he fidgeted as he looked between Bond and the other room. “I couldn’t,” he finally protested, getting his tongue under his command, “That’s your room. I can easily sleep-” As Q’s long-fingered hand predictably indicated the couch, Bond waved him off.

“I sleep on the couch more often than the bed anyway. Trust me, we’ll both be more comfortable this way.” Bond dared a small, companionable wink as his new, unusual housemate, adding, “Now go to sleep before you fall off your chair.”

Q flushed at the realization of how obviously tired he was after the emotional strains of the day. That tiredness and strain around his eyes combined with the novel pleasure of a full stomach, and pretty much smothered any further argument before it even reached his lips. He got up, rubbing at one of his eyes beneath his glasses, his eyelids feeling like lead and sandpaper all at once. “Good night then. Thank you. I don’t think I’ve said thank you yet.”

As was his habit, Bond easily accepted and deflected the uncomfortable – but very heartfelt – praise all at once. “Not a problem, Q.” His own eyes were wanting to stay closed, and he figured if he could sleep now, he could wake up when the alcohol was gone and he needed something more acceptably medicinal…

“So…I’ll see you in the morning then?”

It took a moment, but Bond’s mind and ears picked up the fact that Q was asking this as a legitimate, worried question, rather than a simple polite formality. It made the 00-agent’s head turn, trying not to show how this troubled him. “Yes. Yes, you’ll see me,” he encouraged as lightly as he could.

It was wrong, how relieved that made Q look. “Okay,” the addict finally said, tension leaving his shoulders like wires being unrolled. “I’ll go to sleep then. Good night, Bond.” The words sounded novel and unused on Q’s tongue, but not unpleasant.

Bond waved a hand to indicate a sort of sleepy reply, and Q finally padded off to the bedroom, that ridiculous pullover still hanging past his fingertips.

This was going to be an interesting change in Bond’s life to say the least.

~^~

The bed was a large one, which made sense because James Bond was a decently large man, at least by Q’s somewhat-less-than-large standards. Pushing his glasses up his nose a little further in an unconscious gesture of nervousness, Q closed the door quietly behind himself, unsure what to make of this change.

This was the first room he’d been in for ages that was actually nice, the first one where the bed-sheets were clean and made and where just about every amenity was present or accessible. It felt downright strange, and so did the clothes, although Q blamed that on the fact that they were just too bloody big! He looked down, scowling at his invisible feet, because they were completely hidden beneath the puddle of material from the sweatpants. The drawstrings barely kept them up around his bony hips.

He didn’t like digging through Bond’s things, but was aware that what he was wearing right now was not quite appropriate sleep attire. Besides – Bond had said he was welcome to his clothes, didn’t he? Q still felt nervous about that, and therefore carefully shifted through the garments again until he found the most worn ones, hoping that Bond would therefore mind sharing them least. It didn’t matter that Bond had said he didn’t care; in Q’s experience, people said things all the time, and then went back on their words. Words were just so much air – easy to forget, easy to brush away. Bond was putting up with him now, but the muscular MI6 agent had to be at least a little put-out by having to look after a drug addict, so Q meekly ducked his head and quietly pulled out a set of pajamas that looked like they hadn’t been worn in decades. They smelled musty, but that was still worlds better than Q’s usual attire. He skinned off his present clothes and slipped into the pajamas quickly, not liking how thin he looked in the moments in between when his skin was on display.

Once dressed, he sighed, as if a great ordeal was over and done with. He was actually fairly sure that no 00-agent with any self-respect would be caught dead in these: long, cotton trousers of a dull, checkered red and a button-up night-shirt of the same design. There was obviously a reason these were hidden at the bottom of the drawer. Q liked them, though, if only because he doubted anyone would be angry that he was wearing them, and therefore would be unlikely to take them from him. He fingered the warm material, liking that both the sleeves and trouser-legs were long, hiding the thinness of his frame and the damage done to his body. Unconsciously, he rubbed at the abused skin of his inner arm, then resolutely put his hands to his sides.

That small reminder had unbalanced him, however, reminding him of the old life that he couldn’t so easily leave behind. Looking at the room again… it was just another fishbowl. He narrowed his eyes, troubled by the thought, and tried to reason with himself, but it was harder than he’d thought. Q’s brain was impressive, but he had a hard time dealing with ingrained reactions: they caught him by surprise, bypassing his intellect. Right now, already tired, he could feel his common sense being shoved aside as old habits saw the room as… well, as his whole world again. He’d been living in rooms, living in them until his drive to escape them was slowly worn away. Every room started to look the same to him…

He was too tired to fight the instinct, and it swallowed him whole. His brain was nearly off for the night, and what remained alert inside his skull was locked down by old habits so that Q just padded numbly to the bed. Not once did he look at the door, and once he was on the bed, he didn’t examine it much, just as he stopped thinking about the rest of the house. This was his house, wasn’t it? This room, this bed especially, because sleeping was the easiest thing to do when the waking world was crueler than the unconscious one.

Without giving a thought to the blankets (the room was pleasantly warm anyway), Q lay down on the bed and curled up around his own limbs, making a loose ball. He mewled in bereft panic for a moment, wanting to feel that phone – that safety blanket, that way out, that thin pinprick of light in a wall of black – tucked against his stomach. The sound trailed off, though, as sleep overtook him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to everyone who guessed that Q was in Bond's apartment! 
> 
> I can't seem to end chapters on happy notes :P But don't worry - I have much the cuteness planned for the next chapter.


	8. The Beginnings of Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has a breakdown.  
> Bond has to visit Medical.  
> And Q decides that safety is made up of large amounts of honey and a completely overhauled security system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone commented on a previous chapter that Q just deserved to be wrapped up in a warm blanket...soooooo I did that. Just for fun :) Q in a blanket. Much fluff in this chapter. 
> 
> Sorry I am a day or two behind in posting! Don't worry - I'm still alive and typing!

Bond really hated getting injured and really hated being put on leave from work, but when morning came, he realized that he wasn’t overly put-out about either: he’d taken enough medication that his leg only throbbed when he walked, and he wasn’t bored like he usually was when told not to go on missions.

Because having Q in the house was in no way boring.

Thanks to years of constantly being in sticky, dangerous situations, Bond was a morning person. 00-agents stayed alive long if they came awake at all hours perfectly awake, although Bond would also kill anyone who tried to mess up his sleep schedule needlessly. Last night had been uneventful, however, and Bond’s blue eyes snapped open at exactly 6:00 A.M. _‘Well, so far so good,’_ he reflected with optimism, seeing that the door to his room was still closed. Limping over, he peeked in just enough to be sure that Q hadn’t somehow managed to disappear sometime during the night. 

Nope. Bond narrowed his eyes, almost offended by the blaring plaid, and then realized that they were his clothes and wondered what had ever possessed him to buy them. Nonetheless, Q was still there, albeit in very questionable clothing, splayed loosely on the bed. Since it was 6:00 A.M. and few people besides Bond seemed to like that degree of earliness, Bond slipped back out, deciding to make breakfast slowly before calling in to MI6. He didn’t plan on mentioning Q; he was just supposed to check in so that Medical could worry over his leg. Ideally, Bond was supposed to turn up in person to have it checked out, but he planned on talking his way out of that. 

So Bond set to cooking again. It was a hobby that appealed to him, because the result of said hobby was constructive and edible, and more delicious the better you got at it. Most hobbies he saw no point in, but cooking made sense. After all, you had to eat. Sometimes, he wondered if calling cooking a hobby was like calling breathing a hobby, but decided that the analogy was not altogether exact. 

Since Q was still incredibly underfed but had apparently managed pasta without his stomach turning inside out, Bond decided on a large breakfast. Bacon, eggs, and toast were easy things to make, and he had the time to make them well. 

Still, although he cooked quite slowly, Q remained absent. That made Bond cock his head considering, aware that the smell had to be permeating the whole house by now. Bond was a quiet cook, but not silent either, and when he decided to go ahead and clean some of the dishes, he allowed himself to childishly make a bit of a racket.

Still no Q. Maybe he’d escaped after all. 

Sighing as he was forced to put his injured leg in motion again (if Medical asked about therapy to get his leg back in shape again, Bond would say that he was already doing plenty), Bond paced over to the bedroom door again and eased it open.

What he saw was not what he was expecting. Q was there, and awake, in fact – no sudden attempts at flight had been made. Back in the same sweatpants and over-long, strangely-colored sweater of the evening before, he simply sat on the bed, glancing up in surprise as if Bond had interrupted some long train of thought he’d been having or something.

Crossing his arms, Bond leaned again the doorframe, asking, “Did you just wake up?”

“No,” Q said sincerely, still staying put but rocking slightly to one side, a hint at his nervousness. His eyes said he didn’t know where this question was leading. 

Bond wasn’t entirely sure where this was going either. Brows lowering as he tried to puzzle his way through this, he asked another question slowly, “Did you not smell the food?”

Q was still blinking as if he didn’t know why Bond was asking all of these questions, and the repeated queries were starting to make him feel threatened. “Yes, I did. I heard you moving pans around, too.”

“Then what are you doing in here?”

The question, unexpectedly, seemed to fluster Q. He opened his mouth, closed it, and made a vague gesture with his hand before realizing that his hand was invisible under his sleeve. Blushing to his ears, he slowly, embarrassingly, pulled the sleeve back, but didn’t repeat the gesture. He didn’t have an answer, and suddenly realized what he’d been doing. 

He’d been doing what he usually did every time he woke up: nothing at all. Because he usually was confined to the room anyway, with nothing but his brain for company or entertainment. 

The realization was crushing. Q’s shoulders bent and he folded forward, hands braced on his crossed ankles until white lines stood out on the backs of his knuckles, and his fingers were clenched almost painfully. Without even thinking about it, he’d been repeating what his life had been like for ages now, even though he’d finally escaped it. 

Or maybe he hadn’t escaped it at all. Maybe he had stayed in that situation so long that it had seeped into his skin, so that the cage was _inside_ of him. 

The embarrassment and the shame were agonizing, and it all hit the hacker so suddenly that he just seemed to collapse in on himself, a sob catching in his throat. Bond immediately jerked from his position in the doorway, alarmed to say the least. He hid it well, though, since MI6 trained its agents very well to keep a level head. As he walked awkwardly over to the bed and placed hands on Q’s shoulders, the addict seemed to implode a little more, shrinking away from everything. 

An explanation tumbled forth, however, as if shock and horror had ripped it out. Staring down at his hands while tears started to course down his cheeks, Q whimpered, “I was just _sitting_ here! I wasn’t doing anything _at all_ …!”

Misinterpreting, Bond squeezed Q’s shoulders with only gentle pressure, reassuring him in a voice that was low and truthful, “No one’s saying you were doing anything wrong. It’s fine. What you do is your business, okay? This is as much my house right now as yours.”

That quieted Q, despite the fact that he hadn’t been thinking that. Still bent forward as if Bond’s hands carried the weight of the world, he turned his head to look up past a tangle of dark hair. “I actually meant-” he said quietly, still feeling as if there was precious little solid ground beneath his feet…unless, perhaps, what Bond had said counted. Those words felt as solid as those hands. Q continued resignedly, “-That I usually live my entire life in one room, and I didn’t actually think to open the door.”

It was said so simply and so candidly that Bond’s surprise actually showed, eyebrows jumping up a fraction that for him was the equivalent of a seizure. The faint wisp of self-deprecating humor in Q’s voice did nothing to make the situation funny. For a brief flash, Bond wanted nothing more than to rage and break something. 

Then he quieted, his frustration at the damage done to Q settling into an oddly levelheaded surety. Eyes returning to their usual, unflappable steadiness, he shifted his grip until he was gently hauling Q up off the bed and to his feet. “You also haven’t had breakfast yet, and I refuse to trust the judgments of people before breakfast.” On a whim, the 00-agent picked up one of the blankets at the foot up the bed (laid out for appearance’s sake, or if the heating in the house suddenly quit or something) and dropped it over Q’s shoulders. With the confused hacker sufficiently bundled, Bond felt no reason why not to wrap an arm snuggly around him and start steering them both grandly out of the bedroom. Q looked like a particularly bemused and lanky king, the blanket a long, red cloak making a train behind him, and Bond a particularly cavalier, dangerous-looking escort. 

Still unsure what to do about the impromptu cloak he’d been given, Q’s brain was distracted, and therefore he did not argue in the time it took to ensconce him at the table. Plucking at the red blanket as if unsure how to take it off, Q frowned from behind his glasses. Bond, as he walked past his chair, snagged Q’s wrist and placed it back on the table, eliciting a slightly surprised glower. By now, Bond was having fun, but hid his crooked smile by turning away to fetch food. He was more than a little bit selfishly pleased to see that Q hadn’t removed the blanket by the time Bond returned with a plate of bacon, toast, and eggs. There was no reason for the blanket. Bond just found it funny. Initially, though, he’d thought that Q simply looked small and vulnerable, the kind of person who needed to curl up in a blanket. 

“You’ve been near-starved for longer than I care to consider,” Bond said by way of explaining away his actions, sitting down across from Q. These two chairs had probably not been used in equally as long, and it actually felt strange to sit down with someone at his own table. “So eat. Then we can talk about things in a sensible manner.”

“I’m sensible,” Q had recovered himself enough to pout, but he was already bending his head over his plate and fishing up the supplied fork next to it. His eyes traced over everything, and Bond noted each glance.

“What do you want on your toast?”

Q’s head snapped up, startled as always to find Bond talking to him. Seconds later, he digested Bond’s words, and looked back at his toast, which was buttered but otherwise bland. “Um…butter’s good…?” he started to say.

Q was talking as if trying to find the right answer to a trick question. Bond just rolled his eyes and got up from the table to go get honey, deciding that sugar was a good thing. “How much longer before your addiction kicks in?” he asked over his shoulder. He had to ask sometime. This morning was already going rather poorly, so he figured now was as good a time as any. 

He could imagine Q flinching, and a quick glance out of the corner of his eye showed a skinny, dark-haired figure trying to disappear under the cloaking blanket. But he answered: “The longest I’ve gone without taking this last drug is a week and a half, and…and…I’d just taken a hit when you found me.”

Bond hated putting the quaver in Q’s voice, and hated it more that the hungry addict was now just pushing his food around his plate with his fork. Hopefully the honey would make the food appealing again, so Bond went ahead and upended the container over Q’s toast.

“Hey! I didn’t say I wanted honey!” Bond was standing behind Q’s chair and leaning over it again, making Q reflexively hunch lower in his chair, although he was twisting his head about to try and glare at the larger man. 

Bond pointed out simply, “You need sugar, because you’re a string bean. I also am noticing no attempts on your part to stop me from pouring honey. Is this quite enough for you?”

In reality, Q was avidly watching the dribble of honey, and only after a moment longer did he reluctantly lift a finger and command, “Stop. That’s good.” Stifling a chuckle, Bond placed the honey contained on the table…then scooted it further away, out of Q’s reach, figuring that he might want to save a bit of honey for later. 

“I’m going to contact M now,” Bond informed him, deciding things were under control, “I won’t say anything about you, but I think I can get away with asking about your blood sample. So far, all MI6 knows is that I sent in a very strange, very new drug.” Bond tried to catch Q’s eye, but the hacker had gone very self-consciously still and had thus far refused to look up. Still, the agent added, after a pause, “I’m going to ask if they can find any sort of antidote.”

“If you could,” Q said in a very small, fragile voice, gently pleading, “I would be very grateful.”

“Q, you don’t have to say that like it’s such a big stretch for me,” Bond rebuked softly, blue eyes going gentle, “I only have to be human to want an antidote for you, and I assure you, I am human.”

“You’d be surprised how many people aren’t,” Q replied succinctly, but he was looking more interested in his food again, relaxing under his makeshift cloak. It slipped a little off his shoulders as he reached for the glass of orange juice bond had supplied him with, making Bond think of a turtle coming out of its shell a bit. 

Relaxing a bit himself, Bond sighed and went to turn on his earpiece, the new one, and soon was talking to MI6. 

 

~^~

 

Q ate his breakfast, and did so very quickly. He’d watched secretly as Bond wondered into the living room, and could now hear the murmur of him talking…talking to the group that Q had hacked and who probably very dearly wanted Q in their clutches. Tension vibrated under his skin, and although he did sensibly eat his breakfast – Bond was right in that Q was in serious need of nourishment – he did it hurriedly. Like an itch at the back of his skull, he wanted to know what Bond was saying about him. 

Soon his plate was empty, and since Bond was still talking – just barely out of sight, since the kitchen area sort of morphed into the living room area with this table in between – Q slipped out of his chair to go an listen. 

He paused for a moment, thinking…

Then, as a last minute thought , Q grabbed the honey container. Bond may had scooted it out of his immediate reach, but he’d left it on the table. Picking up the spoon discarded next to his plate as well, Q padded as quietly as he could towards where Bond was, the blanket pooling behind him, forgotten on the chair. 

Q was still just out of sight when he stopped, now able to hear Bond clearly as he held his breath and lapped a little at the honey that he’d dribbled onto his spoon. He was almost too tense to stomach it, but found the sweetness as comforting as a touch. 

“-No, M, I do not mean to cause Medical trouble. Do you think I got shot on purpose?” Bond was saying with a mixture of patience bleeding into exasperation, although he was keeping laudably professional. The blond agent kept trying to pace, but his leg wouldn’t let him. Still, he refused to sit down, but crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling in brief consternation. “The doctors in Paris saw to my leg just fine, thanks for asking. No…okay, yes, I’ll come in and see Medical.” Bond’s wince was fueled by internal pain this time, as he was cornered into returning to MI6 for a check-up. Grimacing, he rubbed at his temples with a hand. He had enough moxie still to add with a touch of wolfish humor, “But if any of the Medical staff are traumatized afterwards, I deny all involvement.” 

Q quite surprised himself by huffing in amusement, and immediately regretted it as Bond stiffened and then turned around, his acute senses picking up the sound. The hacker retreated around the corner a bit, suddenly frightened. He didn’t move away, however, as he heard Bond finish up, “I’ll check in before the hour’s up, Mum, on my word as a 00.” It didn’t sound as though his oath held much water with M, but Bond only growled, and then there was the faint sound of Bond taking out the earpiece and placing it down on the coffee-table with a grunt. Taking this as an opportunity or maybe even an implicit invitation of sorts, Q gave up his hiding and entered the room. He kept his eyes on the spoon and the honey in front of him, resolutely focusing on the golden stuff as it pooled on his spoon. Very determinedly, he refused to look at Bond. 

When Bond didn’t immediately call him out for eavesdropping, instead just leaning back against the couch to take weight off his wounded leg, Q felt the silence push him into speaking, “I didn’t hear you talk about me.”

“I said I wouldn’t,” Bond replied patiently, and with none of the anger Q had expected. 

Q still held his arms close to his body, bottle of honey curled in close as though it would fly away, spoon right under his nose as if it were some sort of fascinating specimen he was investigating. Fully aware that he was treading on thin ice, he said with just the faintest edge in his voice, “I didn’t hear the whole conversation.”

Still Bond didn’t get mad or defensive. Unflappable, he simply revealed, “I started by talking to one of M’s underlings. They haven’t found anything to counteract the drug’s effects, but are working on it. They’re the best around, so it’s only a matter of time.” Seeing that Q was shaking quietly with restrained anxiety, Bond sighed silently and added, “Eat your honey, Q. If you stare at it much longer, it’ll combust, and you’re holding the container close enough that you’ve likely warmed it a degree or two.”

Almost reflexively, Q popped the spoon into his mouth, but glanced up at Bond rebelliously. It was a cute look, but was ruined a heartbeat later as Q grew embarrassed. Realizing that he was essentially holding Bond’s honey container hostage, Q hurriedly shuffled over to the lampstand and set it done, backing away from it. The nervousness was heart-wrenching to watch, and made Bond want to sigh again. 

“I’m going to have to head over to MI6 soon. Will you be all right here on your own?” he asked, at a loss as to how to deal with his strange house-mate. “I haven’t told anyone about your presence here at my apartment, and no one comes here but me, so you’ll be safe while I’m gone.” Bond blinked, remembering that Q had hacked into his security system, and forced himself to add, “I assume my security system is still working? I don’t expect a break-in, because few people know I live here, but we still haven’t talked about what you did to my security system.”

Flushes of pink just touched Q’s cheek-bones, and he quickly mumbled, “It’s still working. I got past it…but no one else will.” 

“Good.” That was a relief. Bond stood again stiffly. “And Q? I have no intention of telling anyone you’re here.” He waited until Q met his eyes and saw the sincerity there. “I firmly believe that it is best for everyone that you remain here anonymously, so long as you don’t go causing trouble.”

“I won’t,” Q hurried to reply, equally if not more sincere. His fingers twitched, one hand tightening almost comically around the now-empty spoon. Darkly and bitterly, he looked away and added, “No one is making me hack anybody, so I’m not going to!”

“Good to hear,” Bond nodded. His relaxed tone managed to lighten the atmosphere, even as he got ready to go out. Recalling how wary Q had been about invading someone else’s space, Bond paused long enough to raise on eyebrow and cock his head towards the television. “You can use that, you know. You don’t have to stay here and be bored while I’m gone.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Q responded, although Bond didn’t think he was taking the offer seriously, “I can keep myself occupied.” Q wrapped his arms around his skinny torso, looking somehow dwarfed by the house all of a sudden, like a small foreign object in the orderly rooms. “And keep myself out of trouble.”

Honestly, Q looked pathologically afraid of causing trouble, but Bond wasn’t sure how to point that out in a constructive way. He simply closed his mouth and blew out a breath through his nose, belatedly realizing he had no idea where his keys were. “Q, where are my keys?”

“Oh!” Q jumped with realization. His eyes flicked back and forth, like a librarian through a catalogue. The hacker’s muscles jumped a second time, and this time it was to get him moving, spoon deposited forgotten by the honey container. While Bond watched in amused bemusement, Q fished out under the couch and eventually came up with the keys. As he came up to return them to Bond, he grew more sheepish, until he was standing in front of the 00-agent with an embarrassed expression and eyes turned away again. Bond held out a hand, and Q dropped the keys into it, and because Bond’s silence and the look in his eyes was clearly questioning, Q answered in a soft little voice that laid his intensions bare, “I didn’t know if someone would come, and I’d have to leave in a hurry. I slept on the couch, so I wanted to be able to get the keys quickly, and leave. I know that the fire-escape by the bedroom window is a quick way out of here if someone is at the front door. So there.” Looking plainly ashamed, but too defeated to hide it, the addict sighed and retreated to the couch before Bond could react. Even once Q had flopped down onto the couch with a resigned, gusty exhalation, eyes listlessly on the blank television, Bond was still blinking and trying to process what Q had admitted. 

“Go on to Medical,” Q coaxed tiredly after a moment of silence, reassuring Bond, “I’ll still be here when you get back. I know that it’s…best…that I stay here.” He didn’t sound entirely sure of his words, but at least he sounded truthful about his intentions. As if unconsciously proving that fact, he picked up the remote, turning in the TV without trouble. It made sense, of course, that someone who could break past MI6’s firewalls could figure out a television in a heartbeat. 

Sore at heart and more than a little bit out of his depth, Bond thanked Q for the keys and headed out, locking the door carefully behind him.

Once he left, Q turned off the television. The silence seemed to compliment the cloud of self-disgust that had enveloped him, and unexpected loneliness also surged in immediately to engulf him. Unprepared to deal with any of this, and aware of how strangely he’d been acting around Bond since…well, probably since he’d met him, but definitely since entering his house…Q slipped his glasses off to rub at his eyes. He knew that his shoulders were shaking, but didn’t know how to stop the trembling. After a moment of uncertain hesitation, he looked around, and then got up rather guiltily and, one by one, collected the blanket from the kitchen, and then the spoon and the honey. Breakfast had soothed the ache of hunger in his stomach, but the sugar had been a distraction and a treat, so he huddled up in the blanket on the couch, pouring honey onto the spoon again. He felt remorse for eating all of Bond’s honey, but was willing to endure any wrath the agent turned his way later, so long as now he could just get some sugar into himself and do nothing else, curled up in his blanket-wrapped world. 

 

~^~

 

Medical was not happy with Bond’s leg, although they were at least glad that Bond had obviously had it seen to by a professional. Bond, more so than the other agents, had a habit of either treating wounds himself or ignoring them. No, Medical was mostly just unhappy that Bond had obviously continued to walk despite the wound, and that Bond had gotten so seriously shot in the first place.

“The medical personnel tell me that you were injured quite seriously,” M observed with one eyebrow carefully raised when Bond was in her office after his trying check-up. 

No one had gotten hurt in the time that Bond had been in Medical, but as always, it had been a near thing. Treating a 00-agent was like treating a tiger with a sore paw. Still irritable from the infraction, Bond slouched a little more and responded in a monotone, “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, I’m glad that you still have your cheek,” M retorted with just the right amount of bite, “It means you’ll recover. I assume that your report has already been filed?”

Bond was known for filing late reports. He had actually filed this one on time, but grinned crookedly to make her nervous, just in case she didn’t know that yet. “I thought I was on leave?” he avoided the question innocently.

M’s sharp eyes told him that his faked guilelessness didn’t fool her for a nanosecond. “You’re on leave physically, but I assure you, reports are still expected, until Medical tells me that you’ve broken all of your fingers or gained a concussion.” Now M sighed, revealing that she was human and not in the least bit ignorant as she added in a long-suffering tone, “Although I doubt that Medical will tell me anything coherent, since you usually leave them in a bloody mess. It’s as senseless as sending you for a psych-evaluation!”

Now Bond really smirked, blue eyes dancing with mirth, and he was sure that M very nearly smiled back as she saw the boyish amusement on his face. Bond’s tangles with Medical and the Psych-team were legendary, all adding to a reputation that some found annoying, but some found dashing. M…well, he figured that M was secretly impressed but mostly just admitted to be monumentally annoyed. Both reactions were equally sincere, but only the former one, if shown, would have increased Bond’s ego to insufferable proportions. “Go home, Bond. Get some rest, check in when Medical asks you to, and try your best not to be a bloody pain. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very much so, Mum,” Bond added with just enough professional sincerity to allow himself to get away with the fond ‘Mum’ at the end. 

It was a sign that Silva and Bond were wearing her down that M didn’t even roll her eyes, but instead just turned to her computer and ignored 007 until he finally got up and left the room. There would have been a cheeky bounce in his step if his leg had not been injured. 

 

~^~

 

Bond returned to his house with the air of someone walking carefully into a warzone, unsure whether a bomb might go off. Q was just that unpredictable. It was actually a fortunate miracle that Q was also small and malnourished – that meant that Bond could at least physically handle him, even if he was pretty outclassed mentally. 

Q, as it turned out, was just inside the front door, bits and pieces of wiring that Bond assumed were part of the security system pouring out of the wall. 

Abashed, Q flushed and ducked his head so that his overlong, unkempt hair fell into his eyes. “I didn’t break it, but I figured since I…er…tampered with it, I should make sure everything was back in working order.”

Honestly, Bond was just wondering how he’d gotten this far without any observable tools. A quick look around Q’s immediate person and space turned up a few kitchen utensils, however, and Bond wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or disturbed at the misuse of kitchenware. “Let me get you some better tools,” was all Bond said, and limped away while Q was still spluttering. 

In the end, Bond opted to just let Q work. The hacker had already proven that he knew his stuff, and since this was literally the first thing that he’d decided to do _by choice_ since coming here (except eat an excessive amount of honey, perhaps), Bond felt he should encourage it. Therefore, after dropping a back of tools next to Q, Bond simply limped his way back to the couch, where he flopped down. It was only as he laboriously propped his bad leg up on the coffee table that he noticed the container of honey resting on the floor nearby, its level lowered significantly. Bond pursed his lips, looking between the depleted honey and the oblivious Q, wondering how the small, sickly figure out have gotten down that much sugar without getting sick or driving himself into a sugar-high. Bond promised himself to watch Q’s diet a little bit more closely from now on, now that a decidedly powerful sweet-tooth had made itself known. Picking up the remote, Bond turned on the television, finding a hockey game that appealed to his love of fast things and condoned violence. Silva liked hockey, too, but got bored if no one got injured in the first five minutes. Bond actually watched for love of the game. M, for her part, rolled her eyes at the both of them and refused to comment. 

Q worked right on into lunch, in his own little world, ignoring even when Bond got up to begin cooking again. By this point, Q had also started moving around, making Bond suspect that Q was doing more than just fix the security system: Bond thought that Q was improving it. The feverish, almost desperate way that Q worked spoke of paranoia finding an outlet, and part of Bond wanted to make him stop, to walk over to him and take Q’s dexterous, busy hands in his and just hold them, saying that it was all right, everything was already safe here. That wouldn’t likely change much, though, and Bond could just imagine a nervous Q getting up all over again sometime late at night to start pulling at wires once more. If Q had to set up the security himself in order to feel safe, Bond would leave him to it, trusting his expertise.

However, Bond did draw the line at missing lunch. That was not going to happen. “Q, you can either get over here now and eat something, or I can find the breaker-box and turn of the power so you have to stop. Your choice.”

“Throwing the breakers wouldn’t actually stop me,” Q startled Bond by replying distractedly, elbow-deep in another portion of Bond’s wall.

Honestly, it was like having an unpredictable enigma in the house! Bond blinked away his surprised look quickly, deciding that it would be better for his state of mind if he did not comment. “Okay, here’s another ultimatum then: you can stop what you’re doing and get something to eat, or I can drag you over here by that mass of thread you call a sweater.” When Q looked back at him sharply, scandalized, Bond just raised one eyebrow coolly, unabashed and just adding, “Your choice.”

Wisely, Q put down the needlenosed-pliers and turned away from his work, walking towards the table. His slightly affronted air was amusing, Bond had to admit. 

The meal was passed in silence and Q skittered off to his self-appointed work as soon as he was able. ‘Able’ meant as soon as Bond let him. Q tried to slip away earlier, with only half of his plate cleared, but Bond reached out and snagged his collar. Then he coaxed the hacker back to the table, making it clear once again that he wanted Q to recover a little weight. Slightly abashed, Q behaved from there on.

But he still nearly rewired Bond’s whole apartment by suppertime. 

 

~^~

 

Bond had hid the honey. Q was pretty sure of it. Still, while Q was outwardly quiet, he was inwardly quick and perceptive, and made up his mind to find the sugary substance again eventually. Since Bond had only hidden it away instead of expressing anger, Q figured that it was fair game, supposing that Q could find it and then not let Bond _know_ that he’d found it. 

After improving the security in Bond’s house (he refused to think that he’d overhauled it entirely in just nine hours with subpar tools), Q felt a little bit safer, and little bit more relaxed. Enough so that he was able to sit down and watch TV with Bond after supper, still perched on a chair instead of on the couch, still wary of Bond himself. After all, he could defend the apartment against any intruders, but the muscular, _fast_ 00-agent was already inside. Q was unsettled by how easily and how swiftly Bond could grab hold of him, and how just the easy strength of one arm could overpower all of Q’s efforts should he try to fight. The whole man’s body was like a machine, metal and wire, and it made Q all the more aware of how fragile his flesh-and-blood body felt. It didn’t help that he was still sickly. He’d kept on his feet working all day because he’d had an excessive amount of sugar in his system. 

Perched in the chair with his legs drawn up as if the floor were lava, Q watched as Bond lazily flicked channels. This went on, actually, for half and hour before it became apparent that Q wasn’t going to show an opinion on what they watched, and Bond flat-out asked him if he had a preference. Predictably, being put on the spot like this scared Q nearly out of his skin, and he pulled his lanky limbs in a little closer to himself and sank into his chair instead of answering. The evening was not getting off to a good start. When Bond eventually got a mumbled, “I don’t really care,” out of Q, the agent gave up, and not long after, Q slipped off the chair like a fish and made to retreat to the bedroom. 

Deciding to forestall that in favor of something more productive, Bond called suddenly over his shoulder, “Do you want the shower first then?” His keen ears heard Q freeze, and then shuffled his feet slightly. Bond added to make Q’s decision easier, “With this gimpy leg of mine, I’m a bit slow, so you may as well shower first. It’s a bit early, but we may as well get ready for bed if we’ve nothing else to do.” 

“Oh, right,” the hacker replied, out of his element. But at least he didn’t argue. “I’ll be quick then.” And before Bond could tell him that he didn’t _have_ to be quick, the bathroom door was closing and Q had disappeared behind it. Bond decided that if Q came back out in under five minutes and anything less than spotlessly clean, he’d shove him back in the shower himself.

 

~^~

 

As it turned out, Q slipped out of the bathroom in just a little over six minutes, looking clean and damp and clearly still nervous about using Bond’s things. Bespectacled eyes watched Bond carefully as the man rose, heading towards the bathroom in turn, and Q was quick to duck his head and shuffle out of the way. He’d slipped temporarily back into his borrowed day-clothes, and the only real sign that he’d washed was the fact that his hair was now a mass of wet ringlets that he was trying to towel dry. As Q tried to get out of Bond’s way, Bond shifted as best he could with a bad leg, keeping firmly in front of him – it seemed to be the only tactic that worked in getting the nervous young man to look up at him. When there eyes were meeting once again, Bond said in a gentle, calm voice that few people heard, “I’m not going to get mad, Q, just because you are doing the normal things that a person – even a guest – would do in an apartment. I’ve told you that already, and I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it. As unlikely as this must sound to you, I’m not just waiting around for you to mess up so that I can get mad at you.” 

The words took a bit to sink in, and Q seemed just a little dumbfounded, and just a _lot_ off-balance. Those eyes – more hazel-green than brown, Bond finally got a chance to note, without any bloodshot redness marring the color – searched Bond’s face hesitantly, until a drop of water came off Q’s hair right onto his nose, startling him and breaking the moment. Q nearly crossed his eyes with surprise, jumping at the cold droplet, and then he was furiously trying to dry his hair again. Bond just hoped he’d gotten his point across, and limped now towards the bathroom himself. “See you in the morning, Q!” he called congenially over his shoulder. He felt a spark of triumph when he actually got a response.

“Oh…um…yes, see you in the morning, Bond.”

007 counted that as a win: while Q did not sound totally relaxed nor totally trusting, he at least said the words as if they were almost natural. Plus, now that Q had no doubt made the apartment into a fortress of security, the jumpy hacker was unlikely to leave. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have a cute scene with Bond and Q planned for the start of next chapter :3 Q needs cuddles, I have decided...very careful cuddles, but still.


	9. One Step Forward...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q continues to have problems settling into his life in Bond's apartment. There are, however, happy moments of progress between the bouts of stress and trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I got writer's block! As it is, this chapter is a touch shorter than what I've been posting - again, apologies!

~^~

 

Q was confused. He was also tired, and all of the energy his body had derived from his overindulgence of honey had apparently run out, but he couldn’t sleep. Instead, he paced the room. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, only that he was feeling quite a lot, and it was all attacking his tired brain and just…wouldn’t…stop! Even though he knew he was tired and needed to sleep. His body was ragged enough without sleep-deprivation making things worse. 

Honestly, Q didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how Bond could feel like the safest thing in the world and yet still logically be just about the most dangerous thing – the man was deadly. Unquestionably deadly, and even with one leg out of commission, he was twice the fighter Q could hope to be. But somehow that sense of danger had gotten all wrapped up in safety, and Q’s brain was going berserk trying to disentangle the feelings and put them in nice, neat, understandable boxes. 

Q needed something familiar. Something to ground him. He was pacing right now with his hands clamped on either side of his head, breathing shaky as he hovered on the edge of a meltdown. Right now, he was clinging to anything that seemed remotely solid in his mental world – but there was precious little to cling to. After all, he’d been taken out of his previous familiar surroundings, and now was in a stranger’s home in a stranger’s room, even in clothes that were not his own. The sweater came close to feeling familiar. Q instinctively liked it, and therefore had managed to change into pajama pants but couldn’t bring himself to pull off the sweater. He clung to it as if it were his skin. 

But it still wasn’t his, and he felt as if he would fracture if he didn’t find something more familiar than this room. Q lowered his hands, looking around in forlorn panic at the strange room. He hadn’t slept in this room at all when he’d first come to Bond’s apartment, and could only remember last night, how he’d all but caged himself in this room. 

That decided him. He didn’t care how foolish Bond thought he was, or if Bond got angry – Q needed something at least a little familiar to ground himself with, just for tonight. Just for tonight…

Q shuffled out of the bedroom, noting that the house was already dark and quiet except for the faintest glow of light from the dials on the microwave one room over. For a moment, an insane bloom of hope lit up in Q’s chest, thinking the couch empty – the couch he’d slept on after finally reaching the safety of Bond's apartment. It was the couch that he’d grown used to. 

But since there weren’t any other places to sleep, it wasn’t as if Bond were just stretching out for a snooze on the floor of something. Q’s breath made a little pathetic catch as he got close enough to see that, obviously, the muscular MI6 agent was stretched out beneath a blanket on the couch. Suddenly lost and unsure of himself, Q fidgeted, head darting back and forth because he was desperate, wondering if maybe the lack of drugs in his system was affecting him already after all. 

Years of training had given Bond senses as acute as a fox’s, and he slept as lightly as anyone alive. Therefore, almost as soon as Q had let out that little breath, the man’s eyes snapped open to bare, glinting slits, fixing immediately on where Q stood at the foot on the couch. “Q?” he asked in quiet bewilderment.

Q jumped worse than he ever had before, gasping as if he’d been stuck with a cattle-prod, his fragile state given away completely. Sucking in a ragged breath, he rubbed a hand over his face, nearly bumping his glasses right off his nose in his clumsy motion. He was shuddering and quivering like some sort of animal about to just collapse and die. Before Bond could do more than prop himself up on one elbow and open his mouth to speak, Q was explained in hurried, choppy sentences and a desperate, quaking voice, “Bond. Bond, please… Can I sleep on the couch?” His sentences grew even more rushed as he barreled headlong into what he saw as idiocy, and he had his fingers pressed up under his glasses, covering his eyes as if to somehow erase himself from this whole situation. “I slept on the couch when I got here, and that’s what I’m used to. The bed is nice. Very nice. Thank you. I’m very…thank you. I’m not being ungrateful. I’m just…so. Bloody. Tired. And can I please just switch places with you?” The pleading had turned to whimpering, and Q was shaking even harder, and he might even have been crying. His brain was a mess and his body was following suit. “I’m so much more used to the couch, and I don’t know what to do with myself in that big room…”

Finally, Q broke down and choked on a sob, and before Bond could actually do anything, Q had folded up like a discarded toy at the foot of the couch. Desperate and shattering piece by piece internally, he just couldn’t beg anymore, and threw all caution to the wind to curl up by Bond’s feet. He would have landed _on_ Bond’s feet had not the agent already been in the process of sitting up, and even then, the space that Q took for himself was miniscule. 

Sitting with his body folded nearly in half, face still covered, Q took in a shuddering breath and seemed to regain a little bit more control of himself, enough to sigh, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m just falling apart a little. Just…just ignore me, please?” It was a resigned, defeated plea, the kind that wouldn’t have cared if it had been ignored, the kind of plea that _expected_ to be ignored, and even a rebuke to follow it. Therefore, when he felt a touch on his shoulder, he hissed and withdrew, expecting a blow. 

“Easy, Q,” Bond found himself saying for the second time in as many days. He eased his hand forward again and this time managed to place it flush against Q’s shoulder, the heat of his palm sinking through that ugly sweater and into Q’s muscle and bone. “Now – what were you saying? You were talking awfully fast, and if you just take a breath or two, I’m sure it’ll come up much clearer,” Bond suggested kindly. 

“I just want to sleep here,” Q whimpered helplessly through his fingers. 

“Then you can sleep here,” Bond immediately obliged, surprising Q. What came next surprised him more: “So long as I can stay here, too. You’ve had a long day, and you’re a wreck, so let me just keep an eye on you, okay? I don’t honestly care for the bed much either.” 

“Okay,” Q agreed weakly, no longer having the coherence to argue. He slowly pulled his hands away from his face, making his glasses sit crookedly on the bridge of his nose, and he looked around rather helplessly as if unsure what to do now that he’d gotten what he asked for. Perhaps he was just so unused to getting what he asked for that now he was on unfamiliar ground, and insecure. 

Then again, sharing such a small space with Bond _definitely_ made him feel insecure. But Bond was canny, and the last thing he wanted right now was to leave the addict alone, so he coaxed him, “There’s room enough for both of us, and I’m not going to hurt you. And if _I’m_ not going to hurt you, _nothing_ is.” The voice was as low as thunder, and held the same unshakable promise. Right now, it was vibrating through Q’s shoulder and side as Bond sat up with a grunt so that the two of them were sitting companionably side by side. Bond’s arm had found its way securely around Q’s shoulders, and Q was honestly too wrung out to even care, even though he could feel the muscles and sinews wrapped around bones, the strength that could snap his neck like kindling. 

“No, really,” Q argued weakly, although it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it, “you don’t have to stay with me. I’m being unreasonable. I can-”

At that point, Bond had felt Q tense his muscles to get up and give up on using the couch, and Bond wasn’t having any of that. With only a slight flexing of his arm, he managed to pin the thinner man snugly to his side, ensuring that he didn’t slip away. “Q, I’m not going to deny you anything here, much less some space on the couch,” Bond tried to get him to see reason. All of this was actually quite worrisome to the 00-agent, and it was disturbing to see Q so desperately out of sorts. He understood a little about how a stressed mind naturally sought comfort in the familiar, however, and decided to accept that that meant Q would be sleeping on the couch. It had been foolish to so swiftly evict him to the bedroom, which while more comfortable, was also wholly alien. 

But Bond also didn’t want to leave Q alone in this state, so he pushed aside any sort of embarrassment and continued to impose on Q’s patience and personal space. The blanket that had slid off him he now picked up again, draping it over both of their laps. “I don’t mind the company if you don’t,” he made sure to inform Q, watchfully judging Q’s continued reactions. 

Some of Bond’s assurances – or perhaps just his stubborn, continued, unwavering nearness – seemed to be sinking in. He looked around the room, took in that he was, indeed, on the familiar ground of the couch, and then inspected Bond’s arm with only a little trepidation, ultimately deciding that it wasn’t going to hurt him. That led to the tension seeping out of his back and shoulders, making Bond breathe a secret sigh of relief. “O-Okay,” Q finally decided, eyelids blinking heavily. “I don’t. Mind, that is.” Large hazel eyes turned to look at Bond, open and guileless as exhaustion crashed in. “Are you sure you don’t mind sharing space with me?”

Q really was sincerely worried about that, so Bond answered in his gentle tone once again, eyes never wavering to show his sincerity, “I already told you I didn’t. Consider it guard duty: you are not yourself, so I’m going to stick around and make sure nothing happens.” Bond smirked. “I’ve had quite a bit of training in that.”

“Hm,” Q responded, head already sinking to one side. It was as simple as that: back in a location that he knew, the panic fell away, leaving nothing but a great wave of fatigue. 

Or maybe it wasn’t just the location. As Q started drifting off, he shifted sleepily, and Bond felt more of that slight weight pressed against him. It was comfortable, and he’d never seen Q so relaxed, and the sight made Bond suddenly feel sleepy, too. 

Part of Bond had meant to stay awake for a bit, to play the part of watchful protector, but almost as soon as he felt Q turn into his side, head nudging his shoulder and loose knuckles pressing against his night-shirt to unconsciously tickle the ribs beneath, Bond fell into a pleasant sleep. 

 

~^~

 

Bond woke up because it was 6:00 A.M. – no other reason. His internal alarm told him that it was time to get up, and the rest of his instincts told him that nothing else was threatening. 

However, his more immediate senses told him that something was definitely out of the ordinary this morning. 

Bond remembered falling asleep sitting next to Q on the couch, and maybe he remembered dozily moving afterwards. Now, however, his whole front was warm and he was lying comfortably on his back with a Q-shaped weight on his chest. Bond didn’t startle or twitch, but merely blinked his eyes to focus them the rest of the way, and calmly took in the situation, immediately relaxing again. Looking down past his collarbone, his vision was filled with a tangled mat of brown hair, the faint glint of glasses just visible. The rest of Q extended beyond that.

Q was very much asleep, and as peaceful and calm as Bond had ever seen him. Stretched out full-length on top of Bond, Q looked at ease, one arm crooked under his head across Bond’s chest, the other one dropping off Bond’s side and off the couch. He wasn’t heavy enough to impede Bond’s breathing, and although they’d lost the blanket some time during the night, the temperature of the house and their combined body-heat made for a pleasant, cozy temperature. It felt like sleeping under a large, bony cat, and Bond had even unconsciously draped one of his hands so that his fingers just brushed Q’s ribs, as if to stroke the material of that oversized sweater. 

The last thing Bond wanted was to wake Q. He could well imagine the level of mortification the addict would feel upon waking up in this position, and Bond, quite frankly, liked it. If he had his way, Q would continue to sleep until noon and then only wake up if all of his exhaustion was gone. Bond didn’t have any problem with staying like this, not with Q so bloody light and both of them comfortably warm. 

Then again, Bond was also not particularly self-conscious, and very, very hard to embarrass. The idea that he could _like_ sleeping in such close proximity to Q didn’t faze the 00-agent, but at the same time…

It would startle and probably panic Q. So Bond decided that this was one little secret that would stay with him, at least for the time being. Deciding to seize the day while Q was still very much passed-out, Bond shifted himself as carefully and gently as he could with his aching, stiff right leg. He’d had a bit of practice at this, although usually he was extricating himself from the arms of various femme fatales that he met on the job. This time, he got up carefully so that the lanky, thin frame of a notorious, unwell hacker could slide obliviously onto the couch. Now lying with his front to the couch-cushions, Q squirmed slightly, but then let out a puff of a sigh as he wriggled into the heat left behind by Bond. Smirking fondly, Bond picked up the discarded blanket and draped it over Q. 

Now…what to do with himself? Bond rarely had to ask this question. Usually MI6 kept his schedule pretty full. He also usually went for food as soon as he was conscious, but didn’t want the noise or the smell to wake Q up yet, not when Q was so obviously tired and also much closer to the noisiness that the kitchen would invariably become. 

So, with very little hesitancy, Bond picked up the remote and returned to the couch, this time insinuating himself on the other end. It was a large couch, big enough for Bond to stretch out comfortably, but Q was still doing his best to cover it with his shorter frame. Amused by this despite himself, Bund just nudged Q’s feet until, with a little, sleepy murmur, Q tucked them in enough so that Bond could sit. 

Then Q promptly stretched out again, the soles of his feet pressing gently against the outside of Bond’s unwounded thigh. Bond decided that he liked Q better this way: up until now, the hacker had done everything in his power to take up as little space as possible, as if he could reduce his mass until the world just forgot about him and left him alone. Now, asleep and more relaxed than he’d been since Bond had met him, Q was doing an admirable job of taking up space, and that was just fine. 

Unconsciously resting his free hand on the back of one of Q’s heels, Bond turned the television on, hitting ‘Mute’ before any sound came out of it, and proceeded to read subtitles to an old boxing match. 

 

~^~

 

Q’s eyes opened slowly and easily, focusing through his glasses until they sat the back of his own hand and the cushion of the couch. That was odd...he never fell asleep in his glasses...

That was when the events of last night all sprang into clear focus: the confusion, the mindless panic, the unforgivably childish actions…! With a strangled noise Q jolted nearly off the couch, and would have probably fled all the way to the bathroom had Bond not stopped the whole action in infancy: the 00-agent’s hand closed around Q’s ankle before the startled hacker could even get up on his knees. “Easy, Q,” Bond said.

Weakly, Q retorted, “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” He looked over his shoulder at Bond with a wince, seeing that the man was very much awake and no doubt remembered last night more clearly than even he did. 

But Bond just shrugged, sticking to the topic at hand. “True. But it seems to get the job done, doesn’t it?” And it did: whether it was the soothing tone or the simple words, the phrase usually did the trick to get Q stabilized and calmed down when things like this happened. Bond slowly released Q’s leg and watched as the hacker sat up, the blanket tangling around his legs and his unkempt hair falling in a tangle over his glasses. It was such a funny combination that it was adorable: messy hair, slightly-crooked glasses, oversized sweater of questionable color, and plaid pajama pants that Bond still didn’t remember ever buying. 

Q, unfortunately, noticed the scrutiny, and looked askance at Bond as he noted with quiet nervousness, “You’re looking at me like I was really embarrassing last night.”

The insecurity and apology in the tone was heartbreaking, and Bond felt his jaw set at the unfairness of it all – no one got this unselfconfident without outside help, and Q was so low on the confidence scale that he barely registered. At least he was confident in some categories (electronics, obviously), but nervousness did a lot to shatter him in those areas of his life, too, and Bond wished he knew a simple way to fix that.

He did what he could: in a perfectly serious, candid tone, he answered Q, “You did nothing embarrassing at all, Q. Nothing that bothered me, at least. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that if you want to unsettle a 00-agent.”

That made Q blink, surprised by the reception his actions were getting. He even sat up a little straighter, although he also blushed, unused to the positive attention. There was also the nagging voice in the back of his head that said Bond could easily be lying, so Q ducked his head and added, just in case, “I’ll try not to do it again, all the same, Bond.”

That…disappointed Bond. It was petty disappointment, really: he saw a future without waking up to the pleasant warmth of Q resting on top of him, and that made him more unhappy than he had expected. He very nearly opened his mouth to rebelliously tell Q as much, but then remembered that Q was not aware of their latent sleeping positions. That took some of the wind out of Bond’s sails, and he ended up sitting with his arms crossed, breathing out in slight irritation through his teeth. “Breakfast,” he finally said, with authority. “No more talking until after breakfast.” He still maintained that the most foolish decisions were made and words were said before food in the morning. 

“I can help with-” Q perked up to start, and Bond, already on his feet, reached out and placed a silencing finger across his mouth. When Q got over his alarm enough to stop staring cross-eyed at the finger and instead glare around it, Bond smirked, eyes sparkling with that edge of mischief that drove all and sundry mad. 

“Breakfast,” he repeated, and then maintained the silence that he had so stubbornly demanded. Turning on his good leg, he strolled off to the kitchen, still in the short and T-shirt he’d gone to bed in. His eyes were forward, but his ears were listening behind him – and, sure enough, he soon heard Q getting up. Then he heard him almost topple over the coffee-table as his legs got tangled in the blankets, and Bond stifled laughter as he kept walking. Q caught up. 

Still obviously irked at the new rule of silence, Q came grumpily into the kitchen, but seemed determined to stay there. Bond had gotten the gist of what his guest had started to say: Q had wanted to help. Bond was pretty sure that this interest in helping was born from feeling like a burden, so he didn’t want to indulge it…but he also knew that Q just tended to wander around and worry when he wasn’t doing something, so Bond turned and handed him a loaf of break without preamble. The meaning was clear: _‘I trust you to make toast, all right?’_

And if Q made good toast, they’d move on from there. 

 

~^~

 

It turned out that toast was not Q’s thing. He had a meticulous streak that meant boring, simple jobs like toasting bread bored him easily, and while he didn’t ruin the toast, he did put them in there, get antsy waiting for something to happen, and then forget they were in there until they popped. The noise of the springs sending the toast hopping made Q yelp as if someone had stepped on his tail, and he jumped a good foot and spun around. Alarmed more by Q than anything else, Bond spun, too, catching Q’s arms as the hacker nearly overbalanced backwards. When they realized that it was just due to toast, Q looked sheepish, and Bond looked down over his shoulder with one eyebrow pointedly raised. “This proves my point. No doing important things before breakfast.” He paused to consider, giving Q the little shove he needed to regain his balance. “Unless you are a 00-agent,” Bond finally amended, and turned back to making bacon again. 

He was surprised when he felt slim fingers just touch his elbow, turning to find that Q had wandered up to him. Having Q approach him of his own accord was about as spectacularly rare as having a rabbit do the same thing, and Bond’s eyebrows lifted minutely. 

Q had a question, though, and seemed determined not only to defy Bond’s childish rule of silence but also to make conversation like a normal person. “Why does it make a difference that you’re a 00-agent?”

Nearly laughing as this ridiculous conversation continued, Bond casually slid cooked bacon onto a plate and stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “A 00-agent can do whatever they want.”

“Hm,” Q allowed, and then obliquely, “Okay then.” And he wandered out of the kitchen.

For awhile, Bond was worried that he’d offended his strange new roommate somehow, but Q hadn’t seemed offended – usually Q was fairly easy to read. Actually, Q hadn’t even seemed all that nervous, which then made Bond frown. This was a new development.  
Right about then, all of the power in the house abruptly went off. 

By the lack of any startled noises coming from anyone but 007, this was not an accidental event. Q was apparently getting a little bit bolder. 

 

~^~

 

Q was sitting on the floor in the closet that contained breaker-box for the apartment, racked with laughter so hard that he had long since collapsed into a silent fit unless anything he could remember experiencing. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d joked. With anyone. At all. 

That thought hit him somewhere within his chest, and some of the water leaking from his eyes was suddenly from sadness, but he couldn’t quite pull the feeling apart. He was laughing so hard that it hurt and his eyes were watering, and yet some part of him was viscerally aware of how rare this level of happiness was to him. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether he was laughing or crying when the door suddenly was jerked open and a flashlight shone on his face. 

Immediately, all hilarity stopped. All of the funniness of the situation vanished and the laughter died as if eviscerated by Bond’s sudden appearance, and Q suddenly realized that he was messing around with an MI6 agent. His eyes widened, seeing the set expression on Bond’s hard face, and jumped up so quickly he tripped on his own legs. Silently cursing his clumsiness, he quickly tried to wrap his brain around an acceptable apology, backing up quickly as if the flashlight’s beam were biting him – or as if Bond’s cold blue eyes were. “I’m sorry-!” he gasped around a chest so full of panic that he didn’t have room to breathe, for his heart to beat..! He’d reached his feet, but this time backed up into the breaker-box hard enough that he felt it crack against the back of his skull. “I didn’t meant to do it!” he blatantly, helplessly lied, unsure if there even _was_ an excuse for taunting a trained killer. 

A trained killer that had pointed a gun at him twice. 

A trained killer who was healthier, bigger, and stronger than Q by an order of magnitude.

A trained killer who did _not_ have to put up with him.

Why, why did Q have to do something so _foolish_ …!?

~^~

Bond realized his mistake the second Q’s eyes widened like dinner plates behind his glasses: the hacker was going into a full-fledged panic-attack. It was understandable that Bond had appeared a bit…tense. After all, the power in his entire apartment had suddenly gone off, throwing him in the dark because he didn’t really have many windows and that meant very little light this early in the morning. In all fairness, however, the level of exasperation he was feeling was no worse than he would have felt to a puppy that had nipped his ankle while playing. It was simply an unfortunate side-effect that Bond’s irked, tense face looked deceptively threatening when lit by only a flashlight. Part of Bond had actually been worried that he wouldn’t be able to find Q, so worry had play a part, too. 

Now Q was looking at the larger man as if expecting Bond to beat him within an inch of his life. 

Bond barely managed to get a half step forward before Q, crouched and ungainly, had hit his head on the corner of the breaker-box hard enough to fold his knees up. Clutching his head, still mumbling apologies in a panic, Q sat abruptly on the floor. Quickly, Bond reached over him and got the power back up, having had more than enough of the dark, especially when he now knew he was dealing with a serious situation. In that short space of time, Q tried to dart past him, and Bond grunted in pain as he had to shift his weight and sling an arm around Q’s middle, stopping the smaller man mid-lunge. The two of them just about both went down as Bond’s bad leg clenched in pain and Q, still dazed, was pulled to a sudden stop by the forearm hooked around his waist. The rebound sent Q back to where he’d been a second ago, sitting on the floor against the back wall of the closet, beneath the breaker-box. 

“Q! Q, stop it, now!” Bond desperately tried to get through to him, regretting the use of his size but finding it necessary to box the smaller hacker in to keep him from jumping all over the place like a flea. There was actually blood on the corner of the breaker-box, and Bond knew that it could only have come from Q’s head. “Q, I said I was fair, remember?” he said on a whim even as his large hands finally pinned Q’s shoulders.

Q succumbed beneath the weight of Bond’s grip, misery and helpless fear making his eyes watery. He didn’t seem to take comfort in Bond’s words, but he was listening. What choice did he had but to listen? Listen and then endure. “Yes, I know you said that,” he replied in a defeated whimper.

“And fair means listening to your side of things,” Bond pressed on. With effort, he dropped to one knee in front of Q, trying to wait before he panicked and went for Q’s head to find whatever damage the hacker had done to it. “So then: you just flipped the breakers for fun? Because I was being a git?”

The reply was so weak and resigned that it was barely a tremulous noise, “Yes.” He didn’t see the point in lying. He’d been beaten up just as badly in the past for lies as he had for the truth, but somehow the truth usually tasted better in his mouth a second before he was tasting blood.

“Then it was all just in good fun, Q.” Bond let that sink in…and realized it wasn’t sinking in. “I’m not mad.”

“Of course you’re mad,” Q argued back weakly from where he sat against the wall. He noticed the pain on his head only then, and winced as he lifted a timid hand, afraid to even touch fingers to the back of his scalp.

Bond gently caught his hand, curling his large, calloused grip softly around the hacker’s long, elegant fingers. “No, I’m not,” Bond stated with all of the certainty he possessed, and finally Q’s eyes met his. Still panicked, still frightened, they stayed there, searching those grim blue eyes for a lie. When he couldn’t find one…he just shut down, because he couldn’t comprehend another alternative.

Shut down was preferable to scrambling about in a full-scale panic – Bond could deal with the former better. Taking advantage of the lack of movement now from Q, Bond shifted his grip so that he was levering both of them to their feet. His leg spasmed and shrieked its protest, but Bond just gritted his teeth and pushed the pain aside, ultimately ushering Q out into the living room again. Q was walking with shoulders hunched and steps shaky, as if his brain had almost completely disconnected, but he was aware enough to jump as Bond – a pace behind him and one hand still encircling his arm – touched the back of his head. Before Q could think to ask what Bond was doing, the pain belatedly registered, and he squeaked rather embarrassingly. Emotions and sensations all flooded in like water through a breaking dam, and Q had to just stop: he refused to walk another step and stuffed his fingers up under his glasses, pressing them against his eyes. 

Bond paused, not trying to make Q walk any further if he didn’t want to. The wound to the back of his head was rather nasty, though, leaking blood into his hair, and Bond wanted to sit down and have a better look at it. When he realized that Q wasn’t going to start moving again, he rested his free hand gently on the hacker’s back between the sharp curves of his shoulder-blades. Once again, his voice very calm and slow, 007 breathed, “Eeeeasy, Q.” 

Q’s breathing hitched, and his shoulders jerked up defensively even as he weakly defended, “I’m not going to cry again in under a twelve-hour period!”

“No, no, you’re not,” Bond easily agreed with perfectly serene candidness, no irony in his tone. Then Q really squeaked as he was suddenly moved forcibly a half step, and he felt his whole front buried in warm muscle and a T-shirt that smelled like gun-oil and breakfast cooking. Totally shocked, Q quaked, and he felt as if his raised arms were more for defense now than to cover his eyes and hold in tears. He was as tense a bowstring as he felt Bond’s arm curl confidently around him, and sucked in another panicked, confused breath – another lungful of air that smelled like Bond, although he didn’t know when he’d come to recognize the smell – as the agent’s chin came to rest on top of his bent head. The mess Q had made of the back of his skull twinged and throbbed, but it was barely an afterthought now, and only distracted him for a second from what was going on around him. 

And Bond just kept saying it, gentle as a breath coming in or a tide going out: “Eeeeasy, Q. It’s all right.” 

Q’s spasmodic shaking became a fine quiver, a faint tremor, and finally he exhaled a hiccupping breath and removed his hands from his face. As always, this disrupted his glasses, but he didn’t need to see very far anyway: Bond’s collarbone was barely an inch in front of his nose, and Q’s hands had reflexively turned to rest against either pectoral muscle right in front of him. Unsure whether he felt terrified…or fortified...within a wall of muscle and bone erected all around him, Q’s fingers trembled and twitched against the soft weave of Bond’s nightshirt. 

They stayed there like that for a long while, Q in a state of limbo where he refused to decide whether he was safe or in lethal danger, Bond quietly holding the thin, wiry frame as if time didn’t matter. 

At long last, though, Bond moved. He stopped talking and shifted faintly, all without actually pulling back. “Q,” he said, very patiently.

There was a sniffle and a hesitant but perfectly functional, “Yes?”

“I believe something is burning in the kitchen now, and you are hopefully not going to need stitches.”

“I didn’t hit it that hard,” Q said back in regards to his head, voice much calmer than before and only gently embarrassed now. If anything, he sounded…shyly appreciative…of the concern. 

“You hit it hard enough to bleed. But the unattended food in the kitchen might burn the building down, so that trumps your bloody head.” Bond was glad when his joke was taken as such: he felt as much as heard the watery chuckle against the hollow of his throat, and was inwardly delighted as the newfound calmness Q was showing now. Bond let him go, moving past him to where, indeed, the scent of overcooked bacon was fast growing unbearable. 

“There’s a first-aid kit just under the coffee table,” Bond looked back to say sternly, glad to see Q standing and watching him, “Use it. I’ll be right back to take a look at you.” 

Q didn’t say anything, but his eyes traced the blond man’s progress all the way back into the kitchen, and remained looking that way even as he’d turned out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, I've still got writer's block...so it might be a bit before I post more XP If anyone has any ideas, please feel free to share them! I'm always grateful for a nudge when I'm stuck like this, lol
> 
> Works inspired by this fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/755255


	10. Hacker Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond starts to realize how much comfort his hacker derives from small, physical things...and just how much trouble Q can get into in incredibly short amounts of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I think I should just warn everyone: postings aren't going to come as fast as they originally did XP I can't maintain that kind of speed, and I'm afraid of burning out. I'm still having fun now, though! I just won't be posting a chapter a night anymore like I was at the beginning. Sorry! Dearly sorry! 
> 
> I hope the humor in this chapter makes up for how long it took to post - Q gets into the honey again, and tangles with both the toaster and Bond's laptop!

The bacon could not be salvaged, but Bond quickly turned off the heat before it became a fire hazard. After checking to make sure that nothing else was going to going up in flames if left unattended (he’d have to reset the clocks later), Bond took a fortifying breath and returned to Q…but not until he fished the honey container out of where he’d hidden it in the top shelf of the cabinet. He’d figured that Q would pillage it from there, but if ever there was a time for pandering to Q’s evident sweet-tooth, it was now. Ultimately, Bond ended up with a piece of slightly-cooled toast in one hand and the honey in the other, and found Q dabbing at the back of his head with some gauze. 

“Sit,” Bond said in his typically brief way, politely ignoring the way Q jumped. The alarm was getting familiar. When Q made to sit on the couch, Bond walked over and shoved him lightly off with a push of his hand, taking a seat on the couch instead while Q gave halfhearted complaints. Positioning the nervous hacker on the floor between his knees, Bond handed the plate of toast and the container of honey over Q’s head, watching the startled hands lift to grab it. “You can keep busy with that while I see what to do about your head,” Bond explained. In truth, it was a bit of a peace offering after the scare he’d inadvertently given Q earlier. 

Q took it very well: the honey got his attention as quickly as if he truly were a cat, and handed a canary. In fact, he seemed almost loath to put it on his toast, as if combining the sugary goodness with the bread was a waste. Still, he did, while Bond settled his knees against Q’s shoulders and started parting tangled brown hair with careful fingers. The honey had consumed Q’s attention completely by now, so he didn’t fidget. Bond began to seriously put his mind to other ways to occupy Q (ways that weren’t solely based on sugar), since he much preferred this calm, docile attitude to the high level of tension and fear that he usually had to deal with. Q didn’t even seem to notice Bond’s knees hemming him in, and when Bond’s fingers started finding dried blood and the goose-egg underneath, Q’s flinch was barely noticeable. “Gonna need some water to get this blood out of your hair,” Bond explained shortly, getting up again when Q just pleasantly hummed in response to show he’d heard. 

When Bond returned with a rag and a bowl of water, Q had given up on the toast and was eating honey again. 

“You’re going to get cavities. Who’s going to respect a hacker with cavities?” Bond demanded with as serious a face as he could manage.

With a start of guilt, Q put the container back on the table. “I ran out of toast,” he explained, or tried to. Sitting down behind the smaller man again, Bond pointedly leaned forward. He put his head next to Q’s, so they were both obviously facing the plate on the table with its half piece of bread. Q’s ears flushed pink but he refused to retract his statement, instead licking honey off his fingertips distractedly. 

“Ran out of toast?” Bond repeated patiently. He propped an elbow on Q’s shoulder and rested his chin upon his hand, further forcing Q to pay attention to him. “Oh, yes, I can see how that half piece of toast is far too small to put honey on.”

“Git,” Q sniped back, caught out. “I thought we were fixing my head?”

Bond smiled, happy at getting such a _normal_ response for once. The smile went right to his blue eyes, lighting them up even as he sat back. He snagged the honey container as he did so, but, to Q’s delicate surprise, just deposited it in the hacker's hands. “We are indeed. You can keep the honey.”

Now Q was dubious, his sugar-high not yet to a level that made him completely oblivious as he paused to think on Bond’s words. Finally, he said slowly, “You realize that you’re rewarding me for poor behavior?”

“You realize that this is the closest we’ve come to joking since we met?” Bond deadpanned back, and then tilted Q’s head forward so that he could work on it more easily while Q mulled over what he said. It was true: this light banter was a new thing, and quite fun, if Bond were to be honest. So while he entertained a faint grin at the corner of his mouth, Bond treated Q gently and felt his own frame relax. 

Q was still rather fragile, especially now that the honey wasn’t quite entertaining him as much. He’d set the container down again, and was trying to sit still while also trying to look around. The combination was insufferable, honestly. 

“Q, if you don’t sit still, I’ll make you hang your head over the sink and just wash your whole head.”

“Oh! Sorry.” But Q still couldn’t sit still. His shoulders and upper arms twitched against Bond’s knees, uncomfortable with being there. His fingers drummed an ever-changing rhythm against the floor, to the point that it drew Bond’s attention. Go figure the hacker didn’t even drum his fingers like a typical person; Bond could almost see a pattern to it, and then Q would change rhythms. 

“What are you doing?”

Q immediately snatched his hands back to his lap, turning to look at the 00-agent before remembering the warnings to keep his head still. “Nothing,” he hurried to assure Bond. He hissed between his teeth as the wet cloth in Bond’s hand got through the dried blood and actually touched the cut on his scalp. Then he decided to fall back on a more truthful answer, correcting apologetically, “Well, not precisely nothing, just…” He lifted a hand slowly to hover over the coffee-table, then thumped out a quick rhythm on it with his fingertips, just one of many patterns he’d done earlier. He sighed, realizing that he was acting like a nutcase but deciding there was no point in trying to pretend he was anything resembling normal, “I’m working out computer algorithms in my head. Without a keyboard, I just tap my fingers.”

He sat, head hanging, expecting 007 to laugh at him or criticize him. One of his hands was still resting, forgotten, on the table, and the other curled up in his lap in an unconscious imitation of an older gesture – from when he used to pull his stolen cell-phone in closer to himself for protection and comfort. 

Then, to his surprise, Bond reached forward with only a slight pause and wrapped warm, calloused fingers around Q’s wrist where it sat at the edge of the coffee-table. “Do that again,” Bond commanded, tapping a finger on the back of Q’s hand encouragingly before letting go. One askance glance told Q that Bond was watching with avid interest. Unsure what to make of this, or if the derisive laughter would come later, Q kicked his brain into action again. Now that he knew he had an audience, it was a little harder to do the trick so mindlessly, but he managed to tap out another seemingly meaningless pattern. 

“And if you had a keyboard, that would be an…?” Bond was already lost, but obviously still very impressed. 

Still embarrassed by his actions, Q fumbled for more words. “I said algorithm, but that was actually a set of command keys. It’s just-”

“What you do when you don’t have a keyboard,” Bond finished in a thoughtful tone. Then he leaned back and dabbed at Q’s head with antiseptic, and Q complained with a gasp of breath at the sting. His hands rose halfway as if to pull Bond’s hands away, but froze before making contact – because Bond was finished anyway. With Q still grumbling under his breath and Bond trying to stifle a snort of amusement, the job of cleaning the wound was finished: placing a pad of gauze over the shallow wound, the 00-agent wrapped it in place. When he was done and Q turned around, he looked a little bit like an amazingly underfed and comical Rambo, his tangled mop of hair spilling out over the top of the wrapped bandage. 

“What?” Q asked suspiciously, noting how one corner of Bond’s mouth kept threatening to curl upwards. “I know that I have strange habits, but I’m not that funny-”

“I’m not laughing at your phantom typing. I’m not actually laughing, I’ll have you note.”

Bond was standing up, and Q leaned aside where he sat on the floor to allow Bond to slip past him with his bad leg. Q was still entirely sure he was being laughed at. “It’s all right. You can laugh. I’d just rather you came out and admitted you were laughing at me.”

“Come on, Q!” Bond responded in mild, good-humored exasperation, low voice effortlessly filling the increasing distance between them as Bond walked towards the bedroom, “I’m not lying. If I was tempted to laugh, it was at your sugar-fixation.”

“I do not have a sugar-fixation.”

Now Bond laughed, a base rolling sound from the bedroom. Q contented himself with leaning around the couch (he’d naturally wanted to keep an eye on where his house-mate was going) and glaring, since there was no one to see the glare. He pulled his head back when Bond abruptly reappeared with something under one arm. 

“Well, since we still haven’t had breakfast – your half piece of honeyed toast notwithstanding – and you have already had a disagreement with my toaster, I’m going to go back to the kitchen and cook. You-” Bond rounded the couch and grunted slightly, leg complaining, as he placed a laptop on the coffee-table right in front of Q’s nose. He was immediately gratified by the sight of the hacker’s eyes widening so much they nearly filled his glasses. “-Can keep yourself amused with this.”

“Bond,” Q stuttered uncertainly, overwhelmed. Already, he felt a sort of nebulous panic setting in, making him draw his hands back. “Bond, you can’t let me have this…” he argued in a weak, almost pleading tone, thinking of all the other times he’d sat in front of a laptop, and all of the damage he’d done. 

“I can,” Bond said back firmly. He’d seen how Q had pulled his thin arms and delicate hands back, and therefore decided to be pushy and blunt again: the blond agent picked up the laptop only to set it down again, this time right on top of Q’s knees as the young man jumped. He pulled his hand back like a cat that finds it had stepped in water. 

Q tried again, looking up at Bond with something akin to desperation in his torn eyes, “Bond, really, you can’t! At the very least, I’m sure I should never be allowed to touch one of these again-!”

It was clear to see how Q’s throat closed up at the last sentence, the way his eyes darted to the laptop almost lovingly. Bond had definitely come to realize that Q, who had had few personal possessions for a very long time, valued physical things immensely because their solidity brought him comfort. The phone, for example. The couch. Likely the sweater, ill-fitting and strangely colored as it was. Bond had only guessed that the laptop – a piece of technology that had to appeal to the mechanical genius – would strike the same chord. He’d been right, and could see that the instant Q had laid eyes on the foreign laptop, Q had connected himself to it.

And now Q was waiting for it to be taken away – begging for it to be taken away, even though he obviously wanted the opposite. 

The answer was easy to Bond. Words were cheap in his profession, so he’d become good at reading people, and what he was reading in Q was a different kind of request: _‘Please don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I want, or what I’m doing. Help me get my head on straight. Please.’_

Bond sat down on the couch, promising his leg that after this he’d stop getting up and down, letting his knee bump Q’s right shoulder as he stated as clearly as possible, “Keep it. I know better than anyone that you only did what you did because someone had leverage over you. Unless you secretly like bringing databases to their knees-”

“I don’t!” Q nearly tripped over himself to deny. 

To that, Bond just nodded, neither surprised nor suspicious. He’d seen enough of Q’s guilt – and Q’s crippling addiction – to know that already. “Then you’re not going to cause trouble. I’m just starting to realize that you do best when you’re distracted, or at least not bored out of your mind, and I can’t think of anything else in my house that can keep you busy.” 

As Bond’s continued assurance, Q was settling into the idea of being allowed to touch a computer again. Looking back at its sleek, metallic surface, he ran a gentle hand over it. “So…this is your laptop?”

“Of course. You can even get into MI6’s system on it – _legally_ – and check up on how things are coming on the drugs in your system.”

Q flinched at the mention of his addiction, but grew a little bit more interested and determined then. It was good to see the new focus ignite behind his hazel eyes as he now lifted the lid of the laptop; the screen reflected in his eyes and glasses as the screen lit up in welcome. Bond had already logged in, not so much because he thought a few passwords would keep Q out, but because he didn’t want Q to feel that he _had_ to hack in. Hacking wasn’t something that Bond felt he should encourage, although that didn’t nullify the fact that Q was very, very good at it. 

Then again, Bond was very good at killing, but M didn’t encourage that, either. 

Bond wondered how long it would be before his subterfuge was unraveled. MI6 wasn’t composed of idiots, and M was quick to smell trouble when it lurked nearby, especially if it was in the form of her best and most troublesome agent. If no one looked too closely, Bond was pretty sure that Q’s change in location and occupation would go unnoticed. If someone _did_ look, however…

Chances were high that the local authorities would find the massacre at the warehouse, and if luck held, it would stay at that level and MI6 would stay blissfully unaware. Until someone talked to Eli T. Genovan and learned that he’d been cooling his heels in jail a lot longer than Bond’s mission report said he had. 

Q was typing with careful twitches of his fingers, as if reacquainting himself with the feel of the keys. He _had,_ wonders to wonders, followed Bond's suggestion and linked into MI6’s computer system, and was warily navigating his way through it. He hadn’t gotten to where he could find out about the blood sample Bond had sent in, but he was moving slowly, cautiously, a forest animal in new territory. Bond decided it was safe to leave him to it. “No getting on chat rooms,” he turned at the last minute to reprimand, clarifying when Q raised on querulous eyebrow, “I don’t want to hear about things I apparently ‘said’ when I meet up with people. So that means-”

“-No talking to strangers?” Very, very faintly – but it was definitely there – a spark of true humor shyly showed itself behind Q’s eyes. “Bond, I learned that when I was three.”

“I learned not to punch kids that were bigger than me when I was three,” Bond grumbled, but turned to banish himself to the kitchen. 

It was a pleasant surprise when Q continued to joke, emboldened, perhaps, by the increasing distance between himself and Bond. His voice was filled with remarkably deft dryness, “And how long did that lesson stick with you?”

Bond grinned as he turned off the stove again. “Until the second punch. Then he got close enough that I could bite his arm. I was smaller, but my teeth were sharper.”

 

~^~

 

It felt natural to have keys under his fingertips again and programming and computer data wrapped around his brain. Since Bond had let him into MI6’s systems, it was all practically a cake-walk to then sift through exactly what he wanted to look at. He was like a Vampire: one invited in, he could go where he pleased without trouble. Considering he also looked as though he never saw the sunlight, the comparison was comically applicable. 

He did get a little disturbed when he brought up the information on the drug he’d sent in. It was like picking at a raw wound, and he squirmed, muscles tensing with discomfort even as he made his eyes go over the information that MI6 had already found out. It was unsettling to say the least: not only was the drug a conglomeration of who-knew-what, but it was thus far denying all predecessors and possibly some laws of physics. MI6 wasn’t stumped, but it was definitely struggling.

Well, Q would just have to fix that. 

By the time Bond had made a presentable breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, Q was so absorbed that he barely noticed – either the growing smell of food or Bond’s entrance. The hacker was hunched over the keys with fingers moving rapidly, brows configured in an expression of polite consternation and slight rebuke, as if the computer were arguing with him and he was winning. 

“I said no chatting!” Bond lamented as soon as he got close enough to see the screen, which had at least a dozen windows open, one of which obviously included text from a conversation that was ongoing.

For once, Q did not appeared fazed. In fact, it was entirely possible that his brain was still so engrossed in what he was doing that he hadn’t totally registered the ramifications of what was actually happening in the real world around his solid body. “I’m talking to someone in MI6 who somehow _thinks_ they’re an expert in molecular bonds. Twit.” 

Bond’s eyebrows jumped upwards at the sudden show of attitude, restrained through it was. He placed the plate of food on the coffee-table and leaned down to get a better idea of what was going on, once again stifling the urge to laugh at how ridiculous Q looked with his fluffy head bandaged. “Tanner?” Bond asked, surprised, “You’re calling Tanner a twit?”

“Okay, so perhaps that was a bit hasty of me. Regardless, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I don’t believe that Tanner’s training is in molecular physics.”

“Then he shouldn’t have an opinion on it,” Q sniped, typing a few more lines of text that left Bond rather scandalized, since this was his computer. Before he could reach out and physically drag the little hacker away, Q mollified him quite calmly, “And don’t worry: I rerouted the messaging system to bounce randomly through various systems. I’ve talked to ten people and none of them think that I’m the same person. More importantly, none of them think that I’m you.”

Bond was beginning to notice the other windows active on the screen, and the magnitude of just what Q was orchestrating from his one lonely laptop was staggering. The 00-agent collapsed more than sat down on the couch behind Q, a rare, dazed expression on his normally stoic features. Q was talking to multiple people, half of them from MI6 and half Bond honestly didn’t recognize but assumed were in the same line of work, or at least knew a ton about the components of rare and devastating drugs. “What have you learned?” he asked dully, overwhelmed. What he felt he should have been asking was, _‘What have you_ not _learned_?”

Still focused on the screen, his brain in high gear and only slightly functioning on a verbal level with Bond, Q’s mouth twisted downwards in distaste. “Frustratingly little. Although I think that Tanner might have been on to something in tracking where the drugs came from. I’m not very well-versed in leg-work like that, but where there’s a paper-trail, there’s a cyber-trail that I can pick up and follow, theoretically. As for the blood sample…my blood sample…” That threatened to drag Q back into reality as realization hit him across the face – the reminder that he was researching a drug that was already lodged in his system like a ticking time-bomb. But the addict resolutely kept his eyes on the screen, letting its predictable numbers and letters and windows draw him in and hold him steady. After a faint bit of verbal faltering, he continued, “…I’ve found a few people outside and inside MI6 who have made some headway. Some were idiots-”

“Please stop calling Tanner an idiot. He works rather closely to M,” Bond pleaded through his fingers, which were placed over his face as he asked himself what he’d gotten into. All he’d done was hand the man a laptop…! “If you continue to offend him, word just might get around that a particularly mouthy, nosy person is talking drugs with MI6 employees.”

Q finally looked at him, blinking like an owl coming out in the daylight, a slightly affronted look on his face as he fixed Bond with blinking eyes. “I’m not mouthy. Or nosy.” He stopped, considering. “Well, at least I didn’t type quite what I told you. I might have informed Tanner politely that he was misinterpreting certain data-”

“Stop,” Bond begged, lifting a hand, “Before my brain explodes. Eat your breakfast.” He swiped the honey from where it was still on the table, easily maneuvering it over Q’s grasping hand. Instead of just kidnapping it, Bond opened the lid himself, squeezing an overzealous amount onto his own toast. “I need some of this. To even the playing field,” he sighed morosely, not being a man to indulge in so much sugar. Nonetheless, he dug into the toast, just managing not to drip honey down his chin or get it all over his hands. 

By now, Q was watching with some amusement, and it was then that reality in all of its glory finally came back and hit him. He gave a physical twitch and blinked as his brain detached from the computer world he’d absorbed himself in, and was suddenly rather mortified with his behavior. “I-I-I think you’re right. I should stop for a bit,” he mumbled, dropping his head and placing the laptop on the floor…and then reluctantly shoving it away as if to distance himself from the temptation. 

Watching from where he sat behind Q on the couch, Bond was a little sad, seeing the witty, sharp Q go. It wasn’t that Bond disliked the timid, insecure side of the addict – on the contrary, he found fond feelings stirring in his chest whenever Q looked down, or whenever Q seemed vulnerable and Bond immediately felt protective, like a natural reaction. Bond just wished that Q’s more animated, happy side showed a little bit more than the side that had panic-attacks whenever he thought that Bond had gotten fed-up with him. 

Now Q was looking thoroughly upset, torn between looking at the distant laptop with yearning and with fear. “Come sit on the couch, Q. Just because you turned off all the power in the house doesn’t mean I’m going to make you sit on the floor all day.” It was only after he said this that Bond realized how ridiculous he sounded, and blinked once or twice as he processed that, yes, he’d actually said that, and, yes, it was totally true. 

Nonetheless, it was good that Q complied, nearly toppling over from stiffness as his muscles reminded him sharply of his inactivity. Bond reflexively reached out, catching Q by the elbow, and all it took was a light tug for the other man to plop down next to him on the couch (nearly on him). “I guess I was sitting for awhile,” Q muttered, red-faced. 

From there, they left each other alone, despite sharing a couch and sitting close enough that they were rubbing shoulders. Bond had expected Q to scoot away after getting some feeling back into his legs, but the thin addict seemed content to sit where he was. At first, he did this without any real interest in anything but sitting, preferring to look down at his hands twisted in his lap rather than go for food like he should have. Before Bond could make a comment about his skinniness, however, Q roused himself enough to reach for his plate and start into his (unburned) bacon. It took a bit longer yet for him to eat with enthusiasm, and Bond suppressed a sigh as he again reflected on these dual, very different sides of Q: funny and sharp and smart versus timid and fragile and still smart but maybe not sensible. 

“You’d best keep that bandage on for at least the day,” Bond commented, if only for something to say. He wanted to coax Q out of his shell again, and wondered if that could be done without the help of a laptop. “I’m not just saying this because you look funny with a bandaged head, by the way,” the 00-agent commented with a hint of a teasing smirk, the kind that always drove M mad. 

Q surprised him by completely ignoring the comment and instead going off suddenly on a completely different tangent, lifting his head and blurting, “Can I get back on the laptop? Later, I mean?”

Caught off guard but determined not to appear ruffled, Bond just regarded the smaller man idly and then shrugged, “Of course. So long as you stay out of trouble and it keeps you occupied, you’re welcome to it.”

“I’ll stay out of trouble,” Q assured him, sounding much younger than himself – like a kid assuring a guardian that he wouldn’t stay out too late or hang with a bad crowd. Then again, Q knew enough about bad crowds to be properly leery in any case. 

“And Q?” Bond coaxed, seriousness edging into his voice. By the way Q’s eyes met his and his posture went still, Bond knew that the other man had noticed. Good – because while Bond had been in a light mood earlier, some things he truly meant in all seriousness. “If you do message people, don’t message Silva.”

Q’s stillness became more profound, the difference between frost and ice in a winter night. He remembered the name. 

“He might be the only one out there who can catch you if you stick your neck out where he can reach it.”

 

~^~

 

The rest of the day was almost dull, ‘almost’ being the operative word. Breakfast was finished up and the two men drifted off in turns to change into clothes more suitable for daytime. Since neither had anything they particularly had to do, that wasn’t much of a change. Mostly, Bond was amused by Q’s punctilious shyness, obviously unaware that Bond wasn’t shy at all and that it wouldn’t have bothered him if the two had ended up dressing in the same space at the same time. Then again, it could all probably be chalked up to Q’s strange personal space issues, or even his lingering fear of Bond. Either way, each dressed in the bedroom in their own time and then switched cordially with the other, Q refusing to take the initiative and go first.

The interesting part of the day didn’t happen until Bond decided it was time to reset the clocks. He didn’t have many clocks, but he had enough systems in the house that would need to be reset in some way after Q’s impromptu power outage. Q was more than happy to help, still nervous despite Bond’s repeated assurances that he knew it had been a joke. That was how Bond ended up sitting in front of his television, wondering how in the world one simple flip of the breakers could have so confused the machine while Q was in the kitchen presumably resetting the microwave. 

There was more wrong with the television than there should have been, which had Bond frowning thunderously. It was a good TV, and had served him well, but it was far too young to die! Yet it had reacted to the break in power like an elderly person falling down a flight of stairs, and Bond was afraid he’d have to reprogram it.

Of course, if it came to that, he _did_ have a genius-class programmer living under his roof… 

It was only by chance that Bond started leaning around (he didn’t get up, because it had been hard enough sitting down with his bullet-wound) and saw something within the wires behind the television that hadn’t been visible from his previous angle, when standing. His frown taking up a more bemused and curious frame of reference, Bond gritted his teeth against the complaints of his right leg and leaned forward, shifting wires a bit. Abruptly, he thought he understood the reason for the problem.

There was no spare outlet behind the television – there was space for the television’s wiring and nothing else. However, it had apparently seemed like the safest place to Q, because Bond saw a very familiar, very worn phone connected to a charger amidst the television’s wiring. The charger was very likely Bond’s, an older thing that he’d thought he’d left in a junk drawer in the kitchen after MI6 had issued him a new phone (this was a common occurrence, because Bond broke his phones regularly on missions). The charger was gaining energy because Q appeared to have somehow spliced it into the television cables. How, Bond had no idea. Q had apparently been quite determined to tuck the cellphone away where Q and only Q would notice it or find it, and Bond felt a pang of sympathy for the fear inherent in such an action. Deciding that the television could just stay broken (neither Q nor Bond needed it, and to fix it would apparently require Q to explain what he’d done to the wiring), Bond tucked the small, outdated, battered phone back where he’d found it.

Just in time to hear a clattering noise and the sound of Q cursing vehemently at something under his breath. 

Unsure if he felt more curiosity, worry, or blatant trepidation, Bond got back to his feet and limped quickly and quietly to the kitchen – he didn’t like startling Q, but any 00-agent knew that scouting out a situation silently was the best way to stay alive. If anyone had asked Bond, “So, what is your wayward hacker up to?” Bond would have had to honestly answer, “I honestly haven’t a bloody clue” every single time. Q took ‘unpredictable’ to a whole new level, it seemed, without even trying. 

At least Q had reset the clock on the microwave. That was in order and as expected. Things got odd from there: Q appeared to be lobotomizing the toaster. No, correction: he appeared to have already lobotomized the toaster, but still wasn’t happy with it, hence the cursing. If Bond had to guess, he’d have said that the lobotomized toaster had bit Q like a mentally disabled hamster, and the hacker wasn’t entirely happy about it. 

“Q,” Bond finally made his presence known, voice very carefully level. The thinner man spun around, trailing a wire in his left hand. “Why are you eviscerating my toaster?” 

Trust an MI6 assassin to know the word ‘eviscerating’. Q, at least, had the vocabulary to take that in without a hitch. Explaining himself was harder, however, as his wide eyes flicked between Bond and the kitchen item in question. “I…er…well…” 

This was a little bit too much to take before the day had even hit noon, and Bond’s pain meds were starting to wear off. He rubbed a hand over his face. This was like bringing home a puppy and finding out that all of the horror stories were true: they were little demons hidden in adorable fur coats. “If I let you back on the laptop, will you put aside whatever grudge you have with the toaster? I’m sure that it did not mean to offend you, and will gladly accept your truce at this point.”

Points of color appeared in Q’s cheeks in embarrassment, although he was appreciative of the lightness Bond was maintaining. The man could have easily flown into a rage. “Can I fix it first? I promise I will! It’s just…” Helplessly, Q indicated his work: the toaster was definitely inoperable. Q could hardly damage it more. 

By now, Bond was trying to decide whether to laugh or not. The bubble of amusement had been hidden under shock, but it was rising determinedly now, and Bond was worried that he’d sound a touch hysterical if he started chortling now. Rubbing a hand over his mouth as if to hide the smirk tugging at his lips, Bond gave in, “I guess you can’t hurt it anymore.”

“I’ll make it work again.” Now Q looked like he was going to crumple with regret. Whatever had driven him to take apart the toaster had fled, just as the same spur-of-the-moment impishness for the power-outage trick had disappeared when reality set in. 

“Easy, Q.” This time, Bond said it lightly, with a kindly timbre to his low voice as he finished, “I’ll tell you when I’m mad.”

“You haven’t gotten mad yet?” Q asked dryly, clearly thinking this was a joke. 

Bond just shrugged, pulled by the need to take something for the growing agony of his leg. “Nope. Except maybe a smidge when you took my car, but that was probably just because I’d bled all over the back seat and don’t take well to hospitals.”

The frank rebuttal was so candid that it spooked a laugh out of the addict, a wan, surprised stretch of his mouth, as if he wasn’t used to the expression.

On that happy note, Bond turned on his good leg and went to hunt up some pills to make his leg pleasantly numb. He’d have gone for alcohol, but that would mean edging further into Q’s present territory. Right now, he’d gotten Q to smile and laugh a little, and therefore didn’t want to ruin that by pushing him even further.

 

~^~

 

After Bond left, Q sagged back against the counter, ignoring the pieces of toaster that poked him in the spine. “Fool,” he chastised himself tiredly. He always felt tired when things just got overwhelming, or when it felt like he couldn’t get a toehold on the life spinning out of control around him. Like now. He’d entered the kitchen and had immediately been struck by the sight of the toaster, so innocuous and yet guilty of startling him so thoroughly earlier today. It was childish, but he blamed the appliance personally for the slight, and had therefore determined to ‘fix’ it. Q was reasonably sure that toasters did not have to be so loud or startling, and was also more than reasonably sure that he could make it work in a quieter and more efficient fashion. He managed to keep himself from fixated long enough to reprogram the microwave with the date and time before he’d unplugged the toaster and began pulling it apart. Bond’s tools from yesterday were still out, and Q had gotten them without Bond knowing, although he hadn’t meant to be secretive – he’d just forgotten that anything or anyone else existed. 

Now he turned, shoulders hunched regretfully, and began carefully putting the toaster back together. Each piece he held as if it cut his fingers, unable to look at the pile of pieces without thinking, ‘You made that mess, Q. Bond leaves you alone for five minutes, and you make a mess. A mess of everything.’ The last words in his head were vicious, and he flinched, nearly dropping the place of wire he’d picked up. Q had to stop, hands braced against the counter, trying to keep his fast breathing quiet so that Bond wouldn’t hear. He didn’t want Bond coming in to check on him. Right now, Q felt…small. Vulnerable. Exactly the kind of weakness that you didn’t show to a creature as large and dangerous as an MI6 agent. 

Q had just wanted to make the toaster work better, but now realized…well, perhaps not how silly it was. As Q thought that, he realized that the sentiment behind his actions was admirable. 

Mulling that nebulous thought over and over in his head, thinking about all of the things that Bond had done for him without promise of reward, Q put the toaster back together. With his mind playing around with this thought, not an ounce of mental power on the toaster, Q put it all back together in under ten minutes. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone who helped me get over my writer's block!! :D I now have lots of ammo for further chapters!


	11. Too Smart for Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q decides that he needs to do a little bit to protect Bond, since Bond has been protecting him this whole time. Unfortunately, Q doesn't do anything by halves, and ends up a bit of a wreck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter! In this there are both cuddles and very much the sad feels. Enjoy!

Q had come to the decision that he was largely useless: neither strong nor worldly, and definitely not stable enough to do much at all by way of a job. His skill set was limited. He couldn’t even make toast without hassle. However, he did have one skill: hacking.

He’d convinced Bond to let him sleep on the couch again, and with an unreadable, unexpectedly lingering look, Bond had left him to take the bedroom. Of course, he’d made sure that Q had a real pillow and blankets before then, but Q didn’t plan on using them much. He impatiently went through the evening routine and curled tensely under his blanket until he hadn’t heard any noises from Bond in over an hour, meaning he was most likely asleep.

Then, his nerves jangling too much for him to be sleepy despite the late hour, Q got up and immediately moved across the room.

To where Bond had left the laptop.

It was logged out and passworded, unsurprisingly, but nothing short of physical separation could have kept Q out. Within seconds and having barely twitched an eyelash, the thin hacker was in, standing hunched over the kitchen counter where he’d put the laptop. He could have sat down somewhere, but hadn’t thought about it. His mind was too focused elsewhere. Next to him, the toaster – back to its normal self, not a hair better and not a hair worse – was a painful reminder of how much he’d impose on Bond in the past day and a half. It was too much. Q’s typing sped up and he was past MI6’s firewalls in under ten minutes, all without being detected.

There wasn’t a lot Q could do: he couldn’t cook past sub-par PB&J sandwiches, he had no job training for any kind of respectable work, and it was even a miracle that he’d been able to drive Bond’s car. Bond and others had said Q was a genius, but he didn’t feel like one, not when being a genius meant he was so limited and useless that he felt as if he may as well not be a genius at all.

But he could do this.

He’d wanted to pay Bond back in some way even before breaking into his apartment, and the feeling of debt had only increased after that. It was partially fear: after all, if Q continued to simply be a dead-weight in Bond’s life, what would convince him to keep him? What would convince the MI6 agent to continue keeping Q’s presence a secret and to keep tolerating his abominable behavior? Q felt a flash of frustration that transmitted itself into his typing, causing another firewall to be pushed aside rather roughly rather than just bypassed. It wasn’t Q’s fault that he didn’t have any social skills…but no amount of frustration on the matter would fix it. He simply was very, very poor company, and there was nothing even remotely logical to the fact that Bond was still tolerating him. No matter how he added it up, the 00-agent should have at least turned him over to MI6 by now.

That was the ‘fear’ side of the argument. He felt ashamed that, even after everything, he trusted Bond so little, but that didn’t stop him from nudging his way deeper and deeper into MI6, laying out lines of his own code as he went. A failsafe, discreetly labeled so that he could find it later if necessary: Safeguard. The programming came easily to his fingers in the same way that words came easily to speakers as they formed their thoughts into verbal sentences.

Q was shaking by the time he finished. Waltzing through MI6 systems like that felt like walking through his own jail cell, and as he stumbled back to lean against the counter on the opposite side of the cozy kitchen, all he could think was that he never, ever wanted to have to activate Safeguard, because that meant that Bond had gone against his word and Q was in high-security confinement.

Well, if that happened, he wouldn’t be for long.

But despite the weariness that pulled at his limbs, Q didn’t close the computer and return to his chosen bed of the couch. Bond hadn’t heard him moving around yet, so the night was still his, and the quietness and emptiness of the house was soothing…if only because he was aware that Bond was still in it. The dichotomy made something in his stomach shift uncomfortably, even as his emotions shifted from lingering fear and distrust to a fervent, determined loyalty. Q pushed forward and returned to where he stood hunched over the laptop, breaking into another whole second of MI6’s systems.

Q didn’t try to question his own motives. What he was doing right now was almost entirely counter to what he’d just done a moment ago: right now, he was going through MI6 searching for weaknesses like a shark scenting for blood – but not to exploit them. Bond worked for MI6, and Bond had helped Q, and even if Q still harbored a deep, resigned fear that the agent would ultimately have to hand him over to MI6, Q wanted to help him. He knew that Bond’s job was dangerous, and that made the hacker even more determined as he began frowning at pages upon pages of code that would have meant nothing to the average person. To him…

To him, it meant that whomever had set up some of the systems in MI6 was sorely bloody lacking in skill. If this was keeping Britain’s top agents alive and MI6 running smoothly, Q didn’t know how. He began using delicate, deft skill to take apart and rebuild.

It was 4:46 AM before a very exhausted, nigh-burnt-out hacker stumbled back to his place on the couch, the laptop where he’d found it, and all traces of his activities carefully wiped away. He didn’t want to be found out. He didn’t want to be caught.

But he wanted to do something useful nonetheless.

He was too tired to even feel proud of himself, especially since all he could think was: _‘I can do better than that. A few more tweaks…a few more…_ ’ The hacker fell asleep.

 

~^~

 

When Bond got up at exactly 6:00 AM, Q was asleep, sprawled across the couch with the blanket pulled up so far that only the tangled mat of his hair was visible, sprouting from the top of the blanket on the pillow like some new type or urban flora. Amused, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips, Bond came to lean over the couch, commenting in a low rumbled of humor, “How can you even breathe under there?”

He hadn’t expected a response, and was therefore surprised when a slurred, sleepy, and faintly petulant voice grumbled, “Don’ need to breathe. Comfy.”

The petulant tones were new, hinting that this was yet another facet of the enigma that was Q: the mostly asleep Q. In fact, what Bond had just heard was probably akin to sleeptalking, and Bond wondered what had prompted it. Q had been peaceably quiet the morning before, although Bond hadn’t talked to him then. Leaning his elbows on the back of the couch, Bond settled in to watch his unpredictable, bony housemate, pleasantly keeping up the conversation in the same low, rolling tone, “All beds are comfy until you get hungry and realize you have to get up.”

That elicited a very good likeness of a feline’s perturbed growl, and the form curled up tighter under the blankets, a mutinous ball. “Don’ have to get up. Living here,” was the muffled decision, still entirely too hazy-sounding to be awake.

Bond had the sudden urge to reach down and playfully ruffle that tangled protrusion of hair, and wondered idly how Q would take it. With surprise, no doubt, as the motion finally snapped him into true wakefulness. Bond decided that sleepy-Q was much more fun. “Living under there, are you, Q?”

“Nmph” might have been a ‘yes’. Then Q squirmed a little and began talking in a different tone, a pleading whine that set up a fond ache in Bond’s chest immediately. “Is’ just…so warm here…and I like it. Yeah. Like it…” One hand snaked free of the blankets accidentally as Q apparently tried to coil in on himself, one hand shooting out between his head and the pillow. Unable to help himself now, Bond stopped teasing the skinnier man and reached out to grasp the long fingers. As Q jolted with surprise, Bond said, “Well, you can sleep as long as you like. Neither of us have a schedule until my leg is healed up, at least.” He was aware that the touch to his hand had awoken Q, but let go, willing to let the hacker reach consciousness at his own pace. It was only another second, however, before the rest of Q’s head popped out from underneath the blankets, and he looked startlingly haggard. Perhaps it was compounded with the fact that he was a bit startled and still fighting off sleep, his eyes blinking fuzzily without his glasses, but Q looked horribly tired and disoriented. It took a moment for his eyes to actually roll upwards and focus vaguely on Bond’s face. “Bond?” he said in a much more awake tone, although still with that thickness that comes from having been unconscious only moments before.

“Just getting up to make breakfast,” Bond hurried to excuse himself, feeling like a prat for waking up someone at six in the morning. “It’s early, though. Ridiculously early. Go back to sleep.”

It was shocking how little encouragement Q needed when his usual setting was ‘distrustful’ for the most part. His eyelids almost immediately drifted shut, as if Bond’s words were a trigger or a switch, and Q was a machine that just had to comply. His head sunk back and he was in a doze again almost immediately, one hand resting on the pillow next to his head, the blankets still up around his neck. His brow furrowed briefly, and his face looked open and strange without his glasses, as if someone had taken something from him. His expression looked troubled in sleep, and he muttered without warning, “…I just wanted to help…” And then he seemed to dissolve into a deeper sleep.

The words struck a strange chord in Bond, making his eyes narrow slightly, a nebulous question forming in his brain. With Q asleep, however, he wasn’t going to get any sort of answer even if he could be sure what he wanted to ask. In the end, he had no choice but to do as he’d said he was going to: make breakfast.

 

~^~

 

It did not miss Bond's attention that Q was distracted all day. The apartment was nearly always silent except for the sounds of Q typing when he was on the laptop – still working on the mystery drug – or the sounds of the addict drumming his fingers in continuous patterns when he wasn’t. Bond began to wish he could get a glimpse inside Q’s head or at least understand a bit more about computers and coding, so that he could decipher that tap-tap-tapping code. Instead, he was frustrated as if standing by while people talked in an unknown language next to him. A lot of the time, too, Q would simply stare off into the distance, chewing on the inside of his lower lip.

Since the silence was at least calm and peaceful, and Bond wasn’t a talker to begin with, he let it be, hoping that this meant Q was starting to make some headway on the drug he was addicted to.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

 

~^~

 

All day, Q had worked with various minds across the country – across the world, he didn’t care really – trying to sort out strands of protein and bits of information from the drug that had so plagued Q. He was either messaging people and picking their brains for information or he was tracking bits of information across the internet, either trying to learn something useful or trying to find out where this drug had been manufactured. Having the internet opened to him was like having a door opened to the entire world when he’d been living in a box until then. If ever he got frustrated or bored, he simply latched onto some obscure information and promptly proceded to absorb it – if he could not become adept at something in real life or in practice, he could surely become proficient at the mental and theoretical side of it. He was like a salamander that had been living on dry land for too long, and now was soaking up water again with pleasure and ease.

But when he wasn’t on the laptop and his fingers were drumming on his leg or the table, it was in an unconscious reflection of other things.

When he’d finally awoken at nearly ten that morning, all he’d been able to think about immediately was how else he could make MI6 better. It was a tricky puzzle, since he had a great fear of being found out, and because MI6 was already a fairly air-tight location, so far as weaknesses went. Q had still found weaknesses, naturally, but it took a bit of brainpower to come up with a way to seal those over. And so he thought all day, when he wasn’t distracting himself with hunting up drug information, about how he could patch holes and sew in more defenses. This was made more difficult, internally, in the many moments when he realized that his help was not even wanted. He was just doing this to try and fill in a hole of guilt in his stomach that came from feeling indebted to Bond. Did that make his actions selfish? Very probably. Whenever he realized this, his fingers would stop drumming and his breath would come out slowly, suddenly making him quieter and smaller by degrees.

And always, that would draw 007’s attention, and his glass-sharp eyes would snap over with an attentive, curious look. Very, very little got past the man when he was watchful and awake, which was why Q was glad he’d decided to pursue his less acceptable projects at night. Whenever he looked up and met those eyes, open and intelligent and canny, Q’s breath would catch as if an apology or a confession was climbing up his throat.

But in the end, he never said a word. He was afraid that Bond would stop him if he told him that he was secretly rewiring MI6 piece by piece from the inside out.  
And the more he did that – staying up again that night – the deeper Q got, until he suddenly realized that there was no point in telling Bond now. Confessing to drilling a hole in a boat was hardly worth it when you’d already rowed out so far that you were sinking with land nowhere in sight.

Standing in front of the counter again with the laptop in front of him, Q took in this realization with a light groan, dropping his tired, ruffled head onto his arms. Shivers danced up and down either side of his spine and his legs cramped, but he still hadn’t had the sense to sit down or go to sleep. The former was mostly due to the fact that he was too jumpy to sit for long: instincts told him that if Bond woke up and found out what he was doing, he’d want to be standing and ready to run or fight. It was a ridiculous, gut reaction, but that didn’t make the nausea any less real when he thought about it. No, he’d definitely gone too far to turn back now.

 _‘Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,’_ he thought, and dove back into systems and code and dodging security systems meant to keep him out. If Bond was eventually going to find out and get mad at him, Q figured he may as well do as much good as he could before that happened. No one else would likely appreciate it, but Q felt a fierce triumph at, with every tap of his fingers, he felt MI6 grow stronger and tougher and more efficient at the computer level.  
 _‘I may mess up everything else, but this I can do.’_ And Q worked until the wee hours of the morning again, pushing himself and pushing himself before finally forcing himself to back away, laboriously cover his tracks, and collapse onto the couch again. He felt ragged and worn and tired and hollowed out, but at least that helped to quiet the constant worm of fear in his belly that had gnawed at him every time he’d thought he’d heard Bond move.

In a state of semi-sleep, his brain had a tendency to argue with itself, even as the majority of Q’s self tried to fall into full slumber.

_‘Bond’s going to find out.’_

‘ _Bond’s going to find out that you’re still a threat, and a menace, and are breaking into MI6 whenever he isn’t looking_.’

‘ _He trusts me_ ,’ some other part of Q argued back, strained and frazzled and tried, _‘He’ll know I’m just trying to help…that I just want to help…’_ He had the feeling that he’d made this argument before.

_‘He’ll know that you’ve been going behind his back for days now.’_

Matter-of-factly, the cold logic of Q’s brain added, _‘He’ll kill you.’_

Q whimpered and curled in on himself in the blankets, seconds before his brain finally released him and he tumbled into true, black, embracing sleep. It was when he was exhausted and vulnerable like this that he hated having a brain that took so long to shut down.

 

~^~

 

“Q?” Bond’s voice was hesitantly worried. “Q?”

It was 1:00 PM, and hour later than the day before, and two hours later than the day before that, and so on, and Q was still firmly entrenched in a pile of blankets on the couch. The day before, Bond had worried that Q was getting sick, or starting to feel the pull of his addiction, and had added a few more blankets to keep the hacker warm. Now Q was buried in them as if Antarctica had taken over during the night and only Q had noticed. What was worse, Q was in that semi-sleep stage that was seeming more and more unhealthy by the day. At first, it had been cute at funny, like a drunk person staggering a bit, but that had worn off as the metaphorical drunk-person had begun to totter too much to be called strictly safe or healthy. More and more, Bond saw the painful vulnerability behind the mumbled, half-coherent words, and came to realize just how unaware Q was of all this – had Q known he’d been sleeptalking so much in the morning (or afternoon, now), he would have been horrified.

Now it was getting harder and harder to wake Q up, and when Bond did succeed at that, Q would usually stumbled through breakfast in a haze that meant his brain was still on vacation. This, too, was both funny and endearing, but Bond knew that that was just because Q acted so childlike and simple then, something that was strictly abnormal.

“…Sleepy…” Q finally replied, but Bond just rolled his eyes in frustration, knowing that this was just more sleeptalking, “Go ’way, ’07, and let more sleeps happen…”

Again, this would have been funny if it wasn’t getting worse. Bond finally gave in to tugging down the top of the blankets, revealing Q’s sleeping face even as the thin man’s features twitched with annoyance at the hint of light. Before Q could sink in deeper to his morass of blankets, Bond pressed a hand to his forehead, finding it hot. Q’s face looked more drawn that before, too, the lines of his cheekbones sharp enough to cut. “You’ve got a cold, Q,” Bond informed the sleeping hacker in a voice growing taut with worry, hands braced on the top of the couch.

“’Mm. No’ cold. _Hot,_ ” Q stressed amiably, twisting his body so that his face was into the pillow and the back of his head to the light of morning. If nothing else, he was fairly polite in this condition.

But Bond was getting worried and exasperated, and his usually iron-strong reserve fractured under the strain. He reached out with both hands and found Q’s upper arms. “You’re not well, Q, now snap out of it,” he muttered as he started pulling an unwilling Q from the blankets.

An unwilling Q abruptly snapped completely awake and became a startled one. This was the second problem: Q had gotten into a worsening habit of hovering in a state of semi-sleep, but when he woke up, it was all at once as if someone had splashed ice-water on him. It was rarely a peaceful occurrence. Today, it was worse.

Q’s eyes snapped open with feral panic and he registered the grip on his arms a second before he recognized that it was moving him. A nanosecond later, every muscle in the hacker’s body tensed and he thrashed with a strength that came only from a pure adrenalin kick. Bond wasn’t even prepared to it, and lost his hold with a curse. Q’s efforts sent his slender frame tumbling off the couch and into the coffee-table, breathing fast in panic and not feeling a thing yet despite the horrendous impact. Almost before he slid to the floor, he was scrambling.

“Q! Q!!” Bond snapped, and then vaulted over the couch despite his healing leg. Pain shot all the way from his heel to his hip, and the 00-agent landed awkwardly with one knee on the couch and the other on the floor, straddling Q, who looked up at him with fear-glazed eyes.

Bond shoved his hands down, pressing his strong hands against Q’s chest to pin him to the carpet. “Wake up already! You’re fine – no one is attacking you!”

Belatedly, that sank in, although not before Q gripped Bond’s wrists tightly enough that the tendons stood out white against Q’s already-pale skin. Slowly, however, his struggles stopped as he blinked in owlish confusion up at Bond’s face; hazel eyes tracked over the blond-agent’s features, slow to recognize them without his glasses. Bond pulled his hands back slowly when he realized Q wasn’t going to struggle anymore, and Q unlatched his tense hands with a little start, still slightly dazed. Then the 00-agent reached out with a sigh and pulled Q up, going beyond just setting up him upright to instead pulling him right onto the couch, where he pulled him into a spontaneous hug.

Q – much closer to his usual alertness now – momentarily fought the hug with a scandalized little squeak, finding himself pulled almost onto the larger man’s lap with his face pressed into Bond’s chest. Bond had had enough of all this, however, and just wanted to find a moment of peace – for both of them. Bond was used to dealing with stress and tension in himself, but in others…it hurt more to watch, because he didn’t know how to fix it. With himself, he knew what to do: get drunk, take a long, long run, find some leggy blonde to sleep with. But by dint of not being telepathic, he didn’t know what to do with someone else with similar problems. Worse yet, he didn’t actually know what all of Q’s problems were, increasing his frustration.

So now, ignoring any protests that Q might have made, Bond just pulled him into a stubborn embrace until there was nothing but the two of them breathing. Q had frozen, like a baby rabbit that Bond had caught and held once as a child: the small animal and kicked and screamed itself silly (at least Q didn’t scream) until it had finally realized that the human boy wasn’t letting it go. Then the tiny, soft animal had held as perfectly still as a glass statuette, waiting to see what would become of it. Q was pretty much in Bond’s lap, legs folded up awkwardly, and the pain from Bond’s bullet wound was a red, throbbing haze that he growled at quietly. As the vocalization threaded through his chest, Q tensed, hands pushing against Bond’s chest, but he still couldn’t get away. Bond had pulled them both close enough together that he could feel Q’s heart hammering, his breath a quick, shallow pant brushing hotly through the material of Bond’s shirt; Bond’s arms were wrapped around his torso at the height of his shoulders and at his lower back, and he could feel the radiant heat of fever. Tense as a bowstring, nearly vibrating with it, Q said nothing, and Bond counted slowly to ten.

“You need to stop,” Bond started their conversation.

He felt Q draw in a sharp breath and – impossibly – grow even tenser. The hacker’s slender fingers pressed against the agent’s ribs.

Bond just kept talking, voice steady and sensible as if to deny the storm of emotions he was feeling, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know you’re sick, even if you don’t want to admit it.” They actually argued about this the day before, Q maintaining that he was just fine. “Even more so-” Bond punctuated his words by tightening his arms, moving Q unstoppably until the slender young man was firmly seated in Bond’s lap and trapped right up against him. “-You need to stop this bloody panicking. I’m not going to eat you, and there’s nobody and nothing in this house that is going to attack you!” Bond sighed; his breath floated down over the top of Q’s uncertain head. “I’m afraid that one of these times you wake up as if someone lit a fire-cracker under you, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Seeing the edge of a bruise already forming on the back of Q’s arm from hitting the coffee-table, Bond corrected with a wince. “Hurt yourself _more_.”

More silence followed, in which Bond did _not_ let go. Q, conversely, didn’t seem as though he dared move a muscle. “Take a breath, Q,” Bond reminded dryly.

Q sucked in a lungful of air as if he really had forgotten, and maybe he had. After a few more breaths, he regained himself enough to chide Bond uneasily, “Come now, 007. This isn’t really becoming…” He trailed off, as if unsure really what he was supposed to say, or if he even meant what he _was_ saying.

When it came to battles of wills, Bond was a grandmaster. He simply remained seated where he was, slowly concentrating on pushing the pain in his leg to the back of his mind, and calmly retorted, “Not until you relax and calm down. I promise that nothing will explode if you do.”

Q made a disgruntled, embarrassed noise, still muffled by Bond’s shirt, although Q could have at least found room to turn his head away. Instead, he stayed with his face pressed apprehensively into the agent’s collarbone.

“I’m serious,” Bond warned, “I’m stubborn enough not to let you go until you admit that I’m not going to eat you.”

Still no verbal reply, although, miraculously, the wiry muscles beneath Bond’s hands began to unwind and relax. The fingertips that had been leaving little polka-dot-shaped bruises just under Bond’s pectoral muscles retracted a bit, and then curled in on themselves so it was just the light brush of the backs of Q’s hesitant knuckles to Bond’s chest.

And then, it became clear that Q wasn’t going to answer, and that his relaxation wasn’t really due to calming down.

Q, still exhausted beyond recognition or good health, had fallen asleep again.

 

~^~

 

_‘I’m not something he comforts because he cares. I’m just a job to him. Something that works better and bothers him less if it’s in a sensible, non-panicking state.’_

Q’s mind was attacking him again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so tired, or he would have remembered how adversely he reacted to this level of sleep-deprivation. Part of it might have been the undeniable cold that had struck when he’d weakened his body nearly to collapse a few nights ago.

 _‘Just tell him what you’re doing,’_ part of him pleaded, first person switching to third with unhealthy ease. When awake, Q didn’t talk to himself, but when in that shadowy realm of half-sleep, things were different – less stable.

To that there was a resounding, _‘NO!’_ inside of his head, which built into an iron-clad argument: _‘He won’t understand why you’re doing it – it barely even makes sense to you! You’ve got a track record of effortlessly taking things apart, and now you want someone to believe that you're fixing something? Something that no one even thinks is broken?’_

‘ _It’s not broken. It’s just not as good as it should be. Bond will be safer if I tweak a few more things…_ ’

There might have been some cutting rebuttal of logic, but Q didn’t hear it, because his brain finally succumbed and sank into true sleep at last. He had no idea that he was still in Bond’s arms at the time, with the agent looking down at him in worry.

 

~^~

 

Bond paced, although it was a controlled, steady, and somewhat limping pace. His leg bloody hurt. He was probably due to check in at Medical at MI6, but didn’t dare with Q acting so strangely. Then again, ‘strange’ had finally just taken a nose-dive into ‘ill’. When Q had drifted to sleep right in Bond’s lap, the agent had been tempted to feel triumphant fondness, but instead anxiety had taken his place, because he wasn’t anywhere near naïve enough to think that Q was trusting enough to just fall asleep on him without extenuating circumstances. The only reason Q had fallen asleep on him last time, after all, was because he’d been in the middle of a high-scale panic-attack. Now, he seemed to be in the middle of an energy-draining cold and finally unable to pretend he was fine.

Bond had moved him to the bed. There, wrapped up in blankets, Q continued to sleep, fever making his pale cheeks slightly rosy. A very big part of Bond considered just going to Medical and taking Q with him. He held off on that, however, knowing that many perfectly survivable colds could exhaust people, and Q had not been healthy to begin with. That led Bond to think of Q’s addiction, and it was that thought that urged him to finally take up his earpiece and contact MI6.

He did not contact M. That would only lead to a lecture on not regularly getting his leg checked by Medical, followed by suspiciousness as to the reason of his call. No, Bond tediously directed himself to people lower in the chain of command, where his call would not cause a stir if he watched his words. He’d done this before: these were the people he’d called about Q’s blood sample.

Now…well, he knew from Q that no antidote had been made. That left Bond little choice but to call for the drug itself.

He looked over at Q, breathing steadily as he dozed, barely even a lump beneath the blankets. This felt a lot like betraying him, and Bond felt his morals give a painful twist of protest in his chest. His morals had been chained up by the combined powers of his will and necessity long ago, however, and he soon subdued it. Talking in formal, calm tones, he found out that the drug itself had been synthesized for testing purposes, yes, even if the antidote was still elusive. Bond set up an order of that, pulling all of the strings he knew and lying multiple times without tripping, all to ensure that this happened quickly and without ties back to him. Before Bond had to resort to threats, the fellow on the other end of the line gave in: the package would be sent to the designated location. Bond (who had actually refrained from admitting his 00-status, also knowing that techies were rare in this branch of MI6 who could trace his call) again reassured the man that the drug would not be used for nefarious purposes, thanked him, and broke the connection.

“No nefarious purposes indeed,” he grunted, taking the earpiece out and looking at Q. The hacker had snuggled, at long last, under the blankets completely. It was actually an improvement from when Bond had first dealt with him, in which he recalled Q rarely even gave a thought to the comfort blankets offered. It was frustrating, but Q seemed to be a person of extremes: he was either ignoring that he had blankets, or smothering himself in them; either frightened by the toaster, or taking it apart; either begging for his drug… Bond sighed. …Or else he was fighting it all off like an undersized, outmatched tiger. The problem was, he’d be fighting _Bond_ if it came to that, because if Q began going into withdrawal before an antidote was made, there was little choice other than to dose him again. Bond wasn’t an idiot, and he’d read over the information gathered so far: the drug that Q was hooked on was powerful, and it didn’t sound possible, much less safe, to simply stop cold-turkey. He wondered how long it would be before it came to that, with Q also being hit by this cold.

Scrubbing a hand over his face – feeling stubble; he’d forgotten to shave – Bond walked into the bathroom to open the cabinet, finding something to help with fever. He found a bottle of perfectly vile-tasting stuff, but didn’t have the energy in him to feel impishly pleased with the idea of watching Q’s face as he had to drink it. The injured agent returned to the bed and sat down near the lump of blanket known as Q.

“Q,” he called, reaching out. He’d though he’d found a shoulder, but instead felt the arcing curves of a ribcage. He dragged his hand up higher until he found the bony protrusion of a shoulder, and by then the stroking motion had roused the addict somewhat – or, at least, Bond heard a garbled mutter and the blanket-lump shifted. “You have to get up, Q. At least long enough to take some medicine that definitely does _not_ taste like poison.” As far as lies went, it was abysmal, but Bond hadn’t been trying. He dubiously eyed the bottle in his hand, trying to remember the last time he’d taken some. “Maybe it does taste a little bit like rat-poison.”

“Wha’ about a rat?” Q’s semi-conscious interest was finally peaked, and a tousled head poked free of the blankets. Still without glasses, foggy hazel eyes tried to find Bond and failed.

“Not a rat. Medicine,” Bond patiently explained, scooting a little closer and preparing to measure out some of the awful purple liquid. “You need to take it because you’re sick.”

Q might have been half blind without his glasses, and only working with a fraction of his brain right now, but the moment the cap opened, he recognized the smell well enough – there are some things that the brain learns in childhood and never forgets, the smells of truly horrid medicine being of on those things. “Nuh-uh,” Q determined flatly, and then he was retreating back down into his blanket-burrow like some sort of scarecrow-shaped worm withdrawing at the sight of a robin. Knowing he had a fight on his hands, Bond gave a little growl in his throat and reached out quickly, nearly dropping the medicine. With the bottle safely on the little table next to the bed, however, Bond managed to grab a handful of Q’s collar before he was gone forever within the inky depths of sheets and cloth. Q protested like an incoherent five-year-old as he was simultaneously stripped of his blankets and pulled into a vaguely upright position. He was batting irritably at Bond’s arm while scrunching his eyes up tiredly, and his hair was a veritable bird’s nest. “Q, it’s either you take this, or I take you to Medical,” Bond resorted to sighing.

That had an effect. As before, Q came right around, as sharply as a light being switched on. This time, he didn’t thrash and fight in shock, but he still did not react favorably. Large, panicked eyes turned to Bond, perfectly aware even if they still couldn’t focus without glasses. “No, please don’t,” Q begged in a small voice, the hand that had been comically pushing at Bond’s arm now grasping his wrist, a second away from trying to rip it free. Bond could feel the fearful tremor in Q’s grasp, and then he could feel it where his hand still carefully gripped Q’s shirt, because the hacker was shivering all over. “I said I felt all right because I didn’t want to go to Medical. I don’t really want to go anywhere...um…” Q’s face flushed more than it was already, and he blinked, perhaps realizing that he was still more sleep-muddle than he thought. “I didn’t meant to say that. What I just meant was that I don’t have to go to Medical, and I really don’t want to-”

Bond waved his free hand to cut off the steady stream of words. It hadn’t been a rushed babble of terror, but instead the steady flow of a fear already grown old and familiar – Q’s voice sounded tired again, like it did when he was facing something he’d faced and been thrashed by before. Bond hated the sound of his voice when he talked like that, because it always held the hint of the truth in the background: _‘I don’t really believe anyone will listen to me.’_ “Q, stop. I get it. We’re not going to Medical – I just said it because I didn’t know if I’d have to sit on you to get you to take medicine. I’m sure you just have a cold, so it’s nothing really to worry over.”

Q sagged with relief. He still looked ill, but now at least he looked sensible. “Ah. Very well. Er…” He cast around, squinting. “Can I have my glasses?”

“Take this, and I’ll get your glasses,” Bond compromised. He already had a cap-full of viscous purple liquid poured up, and Q took it with surprisingly little fight.

He _did_ grimace horrifically and choke a little at the taste, however, lowering the empty lid and pressing the back of one hand against his mouth as he tried to get over the foul taste. “That…” he said, and seemed at a loss for words that properly encompassed what he was gagging on, “That…is truly vile.”

“Glad you agree,” Bond wryly returned, fingers hooking his housemate’s glasses and pressing them against Q’s lowered hand. “Here. Try not to sleep in them.”

“What time it is?”

“3:21,” Bond replied with barely a glance at the clock. His own internal clock was impeccable, and could have narrowed down the hour if not the minute.

Q pulled his glasses on just in time for them to widen. “Three-?!” he started to repeat before just grimacing again and shaking his head in disbelief. “I didn’t realize I was asleep that long. I didn’t-” He finally looked around him and took in his surroundings with the help of his glasses, eyes widening a touch. “I didn’t even realize that I was in bed. You didn’t have to carry me, did you?” he asked in horrified mortification.

In his smile, Bond tried to convey that he didn’t mind – because he didn’t. “You’re lighter than some cats I’ve met. Plus, the bed is bigger and the room here is quieter.” He looked at the tangle of blankets and couldn’t help but comment, “Although all you seem to care about is that it has more blankets to cocoon yourself in.” Q’s lower half was still wrapped up so much that it was dubious as to whether he still had legs under there somewhere.

Q clearly wondered the same thing, because he frowned and shifted his legs, kicking Bond inadvertently in the hip as they both realized that, miraculously, the bed had not eaten the hacker’s lower half. “Sorry!” Q immediately said. Bond had to subdue the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. He _did_ smile, though, an amused twisting of his lips.

“Well, since you have legs, do you want to walk into the kitchen for…hm…let’s call this lunch?” When it came to Bond, everything eventually boiled to a well-cooked meal.

Q, blinking at this unexpected question, just decided that he wasn’t ever going to understand people. Or maybe just Bond. “Okay?”

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have plans already for the next chapter! It's a miracle! I also think that I've found a tenable pace for writing and updating, more or less. haha I also don't have any tests until Monday...


	12. Habits of the Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has quite a cold now, and that means his brain doesn't treat him all that well when he tries to go to sleep - and yikes does he want to go to sleep.  
> Sleepy Q. Gentle Bond.  
> And the addiction is starting up again.

~^~

 

  
Bond’s leg was, according to Medical, healing wonderfully but would have healed faster if he’d just rest it – they said they could tell he was doing a lot of walking on it despite their cautionary words. Bond wondered if he could tell them that, if he sat still, a certain hacker would very possibly take apart his house. _Benevolently_ take apart his house, out of boredom, but still take it apart. Fortunately, Medical would have been more shocked if a 00-agent had actually listened to their orders and sat still.

Another thing that MI6 expected of off-the-job agents were an uncompromising drive to get back _on_ the job. Therefore, just to keep up appearances, Bond sniped and complained, arguing how he was perfectly ready to be back in the field, just so Medical and M could tell him that he most certainly was not, and how they (well, M) would _break_ his leg if that got him to change his foolhardy mind. That settled everyone’s minds, because everyone just wanted to play their roles, deep down. Bond was just worried that, eventually, M would see through his fake arguments and begin to realize that she was being played, and that her 007 actually wanted to stay at home.

Not only wanted – needed. Literally overnight, Q’s cold had doubled in strength, and now Bond was dealing with a fully ill hacker.

They were on day two of Q blowing his nose and coughing and generally looking as though he’d been run over by a truck. Fortunately, even if Bond’s immune system hadn’t been made of steel, Medical had given him more than enough medication for the sole purpose of making sure Bond stayed healthy.

That meant that Q’s new, half-conscious behavior didn’t make him afraid of getting sick.

For the most part, Q was a…cute patient. As disturbing as it was to see Q talking while only half awake, it was pretty adorable, and it somehow seemed more acceptable when you were drugged up on Benadryl anyway. Bond ultimately dreaded the fiasco that inevitably followed when he had to fight Q into submission to get him to take medication, but the murmured, slurred comments leading up to that always made a secret smile coil at one side of 007’s mouth. He got very good at translating Q’s morning-speech, even though it was generally said from within a cocoon at least three blankets deep.

It was kind of relaxing, waking up and realizing your biggest challenge of the day will be trying to find where your housemate’s head is beneath a shapeless mound of blankets. The occasional physical fights were obviously worse, but Bond was used to waking up and wondering, _‘Am I going to die today, or am I going to have to kill?’_ Usually, his day was made up of variations on those options, so this was far less strenuous.

But then Q had started finding new ways to act unexpectedly again. Bond’s mind went back to pondering Q’s new behavior.

Q had been sleeping in the bed again, Bond on the couch. Knowing now that, for Q, ‘more comfy’ did not necessarily mean ‘safer-feeling’, Bond had felt a little bit bad about making the switch again. It just felt wrong to make someone so ill sleep on the couch, though, so Bond had opted to simply leave the bedroom door open. That just meant that Q now changed in the bathroom (his level of shyness had definitely not gone down), and things had seemed to be working well enough. Bond even found a silver lining in all of this as he stretched out on the couch, thinking as he heard Q shift in the next room: as tired as he was, Q hadn’t taken anything apart! It was a small miracle, although the TV was still out of commission. Bond couldn’t bring himself to try and remove Q’s battered little phone, any more than he could bring himself to even mention that he’d found it.

But then Bond had started to fall asleep and had realized that life just couldn’t be boring with Q in the house.

Always alert despite being off the job and injured (it helped that Medical tried to give 00-agents medication that didn’t impede their mental capacities), Bond surfaced from the first dark layers of sleep instantly and smoothly, listening first before opening his blue eyes to cerulean slits in the night. He felt the impulse to frown slightly in bemusement as he immediately picked out the shape of Q standing at the foot of the couch. Well, ‘shape’ of Q was rather a misnomer: he recognized the tousled heap of his hair, and beyond that saw a silhouette like that of a child’s Halloween ghost, because Q had a blankets wrapped round him and trailing on the floor.

At first, Bond waited for him to say something. Q didn’t. Then, Bond almost opened his mouth to speak, but sensed something in the quiet that told him not to. He realize that if Q wasn’t speaking, he likely was either incredibly fragile and trying to collect himself (in which case he didn’t need Bond verbally barging in and unsettling him) or he wasn’t quite awake enough for words.

It turned out to be the latter, and it turned out to be interesting indeed.

Bond had yet to entirely understand the rules behind how Q acted and what he said when he was _awake_ , never mind when only a tiny fraction of his brain was working and he should have been passed out cold on the bed. Therefore, the 00-agent found himself hiding surprise as the blanket-shrouded scarecrow shuffled forward, forward, forward, until he was standing over Bond. Resisting the urge to sit up and ask (probably demand) just what the addict was up to, Bond just propped himself up on one elbow slowly and wished he could see more in the dark to get explanations from Q’s face.

At that point, Q had just mumbled, “Sleepy,” and then rather abruptly crumpled down onto Bond’s chest.

It was a shock to say the least, even for an agent that had years of practice with being shocked by nothing. Hands lifted comically as if Q were holding a gun to him or would burn Bond’s hands or something, 007 stared and blinked and tried to figure out just how he’d ultimately come to have an enemy of the state cuddled up on him.

Again. Bond remembered that this had happened once before, only with a little bit more mutual semiconscious effort.

Now Q, in his sleep-deprived, cold-stricken, blanket-huddled form, simply relaxed face-down against Bond’s chest again, one knee alongside Bond’s uninjured leg, the fingers of his long, deft hands pressing little spots against Bond’s chest and sternum. Despite himself, Bond felt his shock and wariness fade away to warmer emotions as his body felt the pervasive heat of the other man’s body sinking into his. True, that warmth was probably due half in part to the fever Q was running – half of what he was _doing_ probably did now, too – but that didn’t mean it rated any lower on Bond’s list of things he presently enjoyed.

Bond’s thoughts were drifting further in such pleasant directions while Q tucked his head sideways with one ear to Bond’s sternum and the rest of him buried in blankets. Still smiling lopsidedly, Bond lowered his hands with the patient lightness of a pickpocket onto what turned out to be Q’s knobby shoulders. Q didn’t notice, and Bond was just getting impishly curious to see how asleep he was when the other man pressed his face closer and murmured in a strangled little whimper, “Safe.”

Bond immediately felt a stab of guilt for the idle fantasies that had been cheekily building in his head, instead feeling his emotions center again around his heart with a painful squeeze. The amused smirk became a sad look of sympathy, as Bond realized that this wasn’t what it looked like at all: physical appearance and mental joking aside, Q had done now what he’d always done – sought safety. And if Bond treated it as anything more than that, he was likely to end up with a very startled Q that likely would be even more nervous around him that usual.

As for himself, Bond wasn’t uncomfortable with all of this – Bond liked what he liked, and he’d be lying to say that Q wasn’t at least a little enticing at times like this – but he had enough morals to care about how his actions affected others. Sometimes, when he had a gun in his hand and a target in front of him, there was no room to think about consequences, only orders that told him to leave no survivors. Then there were times like this, where Bond was allowed to make his own decisions.

His hands had been drifting down to Q’s shoulder-blades, but now simply stayed with one benignly on his shoulder and the other coming up, cat-paw-light, to touch his hair; it felt tangled, yet soft.

If this was where Q felt safe, than that was what it would remain. Relaxing into the idea of sleeping with an extra, living ‘blanket’, Bond drifted off with one hand still propped near Q’s shoulder and the sound of a half-hearted little cough buffeting his shirt. A sick Q was still ultimately Q in the end.

 

~^~

 

The truth of what Bond thought was going through Q’s head would normally have been spot-on, but was actually wrong for once.

Q was more than slightly aware that his deteriorating health was due to his constantly staying up late to tinker with MI6 systems. Now, though, he was finally too sick to actually do that.

So what did he do? Stressed over it in his sleep. Once again his brain was taking advantage of weakness and doing its level best to drive him insane. And now his brain seemed to have found new material.

Q was dreaming that Bond was in danger.

Usually, Q’s brain was creative in a linear fashion – it was what made his brand of hacking so impressive. Living with Bond, though, in such a new environment had tipped the addict’s brain on its ear, and it was entirely possible that he had a slight reaction to the Benadryl, too. Either way, even before he was properly asleep, he was dreaming, dreaming, dreaming…

Blueprints were enough for Q to imagine a whole building, so he saw the insides of MI6 rooms and hallways as panic ensued. It made him imagine what things would have been like when he’d shut MI6 down, only he hadn’t done it this time – he was sure he hadn’t! Someone else was attacking MI6, because Q hadn’t made its systems strong enough.

People were running, faceless people that Q didn’t know, and then the voice of Bond – the only MI6 voice that Q really knew – barking orders in the distance with that edge of iron in his voice that said danger was near and had better _back off!_ But Q, in his dream, could tell that the computers weren’t responding and the breach was total. Danger was there and it was closing in, because Q had had to sleep instead of making MI6 into the fortress it needed to be.

Gunshots – a sound that Q knew as deeply as he knew the sounds of tendons stretching as a hand made a fist – echoed through Q’s dream as unknown enemies made it into MI6 and laid waste to it. Dreaming, shaking, Q began to see bodies with no life in them, and more blood than his purely logical self would have believed possible. Finally too desperate to remain frozen, he felt himself run to a computer, frantic to do something…! His fingers passed through the keys, or slipped off them, or something else ridiculous as the dream thwarted him. The screen remained blank, until he looked up and saw a window opening on it.  
 _‘Not such a clever boy,’_ it read with dark cheer. Q sobbed but couldn’t hear himself, his voice as much a ghost as his hands were.

  
Q was somewhere else, but with the same sounds of general mayhem bombarding his ethereal ears. Bond was there, leaning against the wall and clutching his leg as if they’d been transported back to the warehouse, back when Caesar had shot him, only this time Bond didn’t seem to have a gun. _‘How in the world can Bond not have a gun?!’_ And it wasn’t Caesar walking up to Bond, but instead Silva, because who else did Q fear most? He’d dug into the pale-haired man’s records at the first opportunity, giving his memory a face to go with the ruthless coding that had nearly buckled Q’s defenses in the past and had scared him right back into himself like a mouse fleeing down a burrow. Even in his records, the man had been smiling that too-broad, oiled smile, and that was the face that now walked up to Bond, gun preceding it.

“NO!” Q tried to yell, but his voice echoed nowhere but instead his own head.

And then Silva fired, and the dream shattered.

Next thing Q knew, he was stumbling, clutching a blanket around him not because he felt cold, but because he felt like he was made up of a thousand pieces that were barely held together; their edges grated. The world was dark and shadowy and he didn’t know where he was going, but kept going forward anyway, one shuffling footstep after another, his eyes trained on his feet. It felt as though he’d left most of himself in the dream, lying still and dead next to Bond in that growing pool of ruby…

 _‘No!’_ What little of Q that was even vaguely conscious denied what he’d seen as best he could. Bond wasn’t dead…he couldn’t be… Driven by need more than common sense, Q continued to head to the couch…Bond’s couch…on instinct. He had to feel that the man was there, and real, and living, and that he hadn’t failed him.

The hacker stopped, blinking as he became aware of an obstacle. Oh. Yes. That was the couch. Momentarily, he was stumped with what to do now, and might have stayed that way for hours had not the figure on that couch moved the teensiest bit. Without his glasses on, Q honestly couldn’t see much, but movement was movement even when it was the movement of fuzzy blobs. Somehow Q navigated around the couch until he was standing in front of it, and if he narrowed his eyes really, really hard…!

Bond couldn’t be dead…he really couldn’t…! Q was so exhausted and his terrified brain wouldn’t let him sleep.

Feeling his heart about to snap from the tension, the semiconscious hacker folded up – or fell forward, he didn’t know. Or care. The constant buzz of panic in his brain blocked out everything else until Q could feel the warmth of a living body beneath his hands and the powerful thud of a heartbeat beneath his ear. Nothing had ever sounded so good as the steady inhale and exhale of breath.

Bond was safe.

"Safe."

Q hadn’t let him die.

Hadn’t let him down.

Q nearly startled fully awake at the feel of hands on his shoulders and on his head, spasmodically thinking, ‘ _Silva!’_ but true sleep had already gripped him, and it dragged him right down into the black velvet of unconsciousness.

 

~^~

 

Bond had promised himself that he wouldn’t make Q uncomfortable, but that didn’t mean Bond couldn’t appreciate how nice it was to wake up with a warm, breathing body heating him up like a second skin. Q was still so light that even a full night with the hacker on his chest didn’t made Bond feel stifled; breathing was no problem. Q hadn’t moved at all during the night, and Bond wasn’t sure whether to feel happy or worried about that, because he wasn’t sure which was actually normal for the addict: sleeping like a tornado or not moving a hair. When Q drew in a breath, it had the heavy sound of congestion to it, and then Q let the breath out in a cough. Bond winced in sympathy at the painful sound, and unconsciously rubbed Q’s shoulder as the smaller man got his breath back and squirmed painfully. Tylenol for a sore throat was on the menu as soon as Q woke up. Slowly Q relaxed, asleep and at least outwardly comfortable again. Bond – ignoring the fact that he’d probably had a sick man coughing on him all night – continued rubbing small circles on Q’s shoulder muscles with his thumb.

Now. To get up, or not to get up? Predictably, it was six in the morning, with no telling when Q would finally cough himself awake. Part of Bond wanted to stay put until then – just see what would happen when the hacker opened his eyes to find out that his pillow was actually an MI6 agent. Comically, Bond noted that this realization might take a bit longer since Q lacked glasses, and was a veritable mole without them.

But all of this was a selfish whim. Sure, it would please Bond to no end, but Bond was also far more used to waking up in strange sleeping situations. Q…  
Q would probably go into the panic-attack to end all panic-attacks, and Bond would end up fishing him out from under the bed or something. Or coaxing him out of the bathroom, which had a lock on it. That decided Bond more than anything, who grumbled too quietly to be heard but began to extricate himself.

A sick Q was, fortunately, a Q that slept pretty deeply. A moment or two later and Bond was standing, absently stretching, and looking down at a rumpled pile of blankets that was still undeniably Q. Feeling a warm place still thrumming in his heart, Bond went to find something to do until it was an acceptable time for breakfast.

He did return a moment later when he heard a sleepy sneeze, silently using his spy skills to drop off a box of tissues and the depleted container of honey without waking his unique housemate.

 

~^~

 

The rest of the day was…well, what the days before had been. Bond wasn’t complaining, except that he had to admit that life was boring when his resident hacker was too busy blowing his nose or coughing to try taking apart his house. At first, Bond would have said that Q’s tinkering was troublesome, but now he found that he missed it.

“The toaster feels neglected,” he impulsively noted around three-o'clock that afternoon.

Q looked up from the lemon-and-honey tea that he’d been drinking, cheeks flushed and eyes still foggy despite the fact that he’d been up for hours. “What?”

“You haven’t so much as looked at my toaster sideways in days,” Bond continued to lightly joke, voice completely sensible and level as he walked back into the living room with his own drink – coffee. He plopped down on the couch and watched as Q, looking puzzled still, drew his legs in to give the larger man room. Not that there hadn’t been room before, but it had already been established that Q had odd ideas about personal space. “You must really be sick,” Bond finished with a logically raised eyebrow.

It took Q a moment. Exactly five seconds, to be exact. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, tousled brown hair falling in wavy strands, and eventually his eyes sparked with recognition. “Ha. Ha,” was his reply, and it came in a rasp that made Bond feel guilty for making him talk. Maybe Q hadn’t been brooding – maybe he was just quiet because talking hurt. The hacker grimaced and went back to gingerly sipping tea.

Eventually, however, it turned out that Q could talk if he wanted to.

“Bond.”

That was all, just his name, said quite seriously. Bond had been trying to figure out the Sudoku in the newspaper, and at first bristled because he expected Q to ridicule his continuous failing. However, glancing up, he saw that Q’s face was solemn and didn’t contain any humor or visible ridicule. The MI6 agent sat up to give Q his full attention. “Yes?”

For most of the morning, Q had been sitting on the couch at one end, legs pulled up, most of him still tucked in a blanket. Bond had told him that Q had stumbled up to the couch after Bond had left it, keeping the lie close to the truth. That had had the desired results, meaning Q had relaxed after his initial embarrassed surprise, and had let Bond mother him a bit. Now, two Tylenol, breakfast cereal, and a cup of liberally honeyed tea later (to say nothing for the small army of used tissues clustered nearby like an embassy of snowballs), Q was subtly tense and his eyes looked shadowed by something other than the dark circles under them. He was looking Bond in the eye, which was a disturbing rarity all on its own, and nearly looked away once – then looked back, determined, and said clearly, “The cravings are coming back.”

For a moment, Bond could just blink. Tension slowly filled him until he realized his jaw was clenched, and he swallowed thickly. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” Q said with lightness that couldn’t be real, “I’m relatively sure that I can recognize the signs. I’m…” His faint, deft humor failed him a bit as reality made him stumble. “I-I’m going to be a wreck in a day or two. Maybe less. Generally, being sick hasn’t done much for my tolerance.”

“You’ve been sick before when your cravings kick in?” Bond asked just a little tightly. He wished, for a moment, that Caesar wasn’t dead, so that he could kill him himself – but more slowly. It was bad enough to control a person through an addiction, but to let them get malnourished and sick on top of all that was a whole new level of evil.

Q didn’t seem quite as perturbed by this. He shrugged. “Often. Although it’s a matter of degrees – I haven’t been _this_ sick in awhile, but to call myself perfectly healthy-”

“Would be a lie?” Bond interjected thinly.

Q’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Correct. Therefore…I have no idea how long it will be before I start acting oddly,” he admitted in a rush.

Without pause, Bond leaned forward and pulled his laptop to him. “I’m going to check and see how MI6 is doing on an antidote.” All the while, he was thinking of the drug itself, which he had stored away amongst his nicer shirts, because Q had already proven that he didn’t willingly dig through Bond’s stuff (unless that ‘stuff’ looked useless or otherwise style-challenged, like that sweater he still kept wearing).

At first, Q opened his mouth as if to argue, but then just closed it and nodded, doing a poor imitation of optimism.

When Bond replied, with a frustrated sigh, “Nothing,” Q turned his head away, and Bond used the opportunity to catalogue the features of his face at that moment. Bond was good at reading faces and body language: from that, he could tell what a person was going to say, when they were going to shoot, and whether they had the guts to kill.

On Q’s face – all sharp angles and elegant, thin slants, long lashes and hazel eyes – Bond saw all the signs that said the hacker was just about ready to break down and sob, and Bond didn’t blame him.

 

~^~

 

Q had known it was coming, and was prepared for it. He’d dealt with what addiction did to him, and was about as close to a pro as he could be when it came to how to handle things. As the day wore on, Bond watched as closely as a hawk, and therefore didn’t miss a single time when Q would suddenly freeze, squeeze his eyes shut as if against a headache, and simply hold his body incredibly still for a long moment. One breath. Two breaths. Three. The number went up as the day went on, and when Q would finally relax and return to normal, he always looked more and more haggard, a new feverish light stalking the backs of his eyes.  
Bond honestly thought that he’d have to administer Q’s drug of choice before the day was out, but when night came, Q was still holding it together, albeit barely. He hadn’t moved from the far end of the couch in at least two hours, and was huddled up against the armrest in a troubled doze. Sleep was a vague sort of escape that had eluded Q until now, so Bond didn’t want to disturb him, although it looked like a bloody poor nap: Q’s face was pinched with stress and his breathing was too fast for real sleep, and a sheen of sweat was on his face and dampening his hair. He clutched the blanket around himself and shivered fitfully like a frozen man, and one of his legs kept slipping off the couch to startle him half-awake. Clearly, he wasn’t really getting much rest at all, just stubbornly trying to.

“Q…” Bond finally sighed, unable to let things stand like this. He strode over and picked Q right up without ceremony, ignoring the indignant squawk of surprise as Q woke up. “Q, you’re sick, and you’re weak, and if you’re not careful, you’re going to get worse,” Bond informed him blatantly.

“What-?” Q argued blearily for a moment before realizing that Bond had made the decision for him that napping on the couch wasn’t working. After coming to that conclusion, Q just allowed himself to be carried. “I’m not a child, you know,” he pointed out primly.

Bond just kept walking, although he noted that, despite the arguments, Q was holding onto his shirt as if for balance. “I know,” he said simply.

But he still carried Q to bed and watched with a military air until the addict was tucked into bed.

“Happy?” Q asked. His glaring was heavily tempered by the fact that he looked exhausted, shaky, and – in all honesty – grateful. The hacker looked like he just wanted to sleep, and having someone else do the thinking for a change left him looking more than a little bit relieved.

Bond allowed the faintest hint of a smile to slip onto his face, feeling smugly triumphant. “Ecstatic, in fact. Do you plan to keep glaring, or go to sleep?”

It looked like it was a close race between the two, but then Q slipped his glasses off. Still glowering shortsightedly at the larger, blonde-haired man, Q rolled over and snugged the blankets up around his shoulders, grumbling, “Bloody bossy.”

Outwardly, Bond chuckled, letting Q knew that he’d taken the words in good humor. However, what Q couldn’t see was that Bond was frowning worriedly, unable to miss the way that Q’s muscles still spasmed, a constant, fidgety movement that didn’t bode well for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I barely realized it, but I added some twisted canon in there - the part about Silva 'attacking' MI6 is vaguely reminiscent of Skyfall ;)
> 
> Sorry if this chapter is short by my standards - mostly, I just wanted to set everything up for the fiasco of the next chapter XP And to have some more couch-cuddling time :3


	13. Losing the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The combination of addiction and illness finally force Bond's hand.

By noon the next day, Bond had made up his mind.

This had to stop.

Q hadn’t come out of the bedroom yet. He had, however, gotten up to close the door. Bond knew this because he’d been awake an hour before then listening to Q tossing and turning and making small sounds of distress, wishing that the addict would wander into the living room as he had the night before, so that Bond could feel his warmth and reassure himself of Q’s steady breathing. Regardless of the facts of addiction, Bond was sure that he could have eased the pain if he’d held Q close enough. The progressive direction of his own emotions made Bond close his eyes and take a deep breath, but that didn’t mean he liked the thought of Q stretched out on top of him any less.

A few looks into the bedroom to check on Q had simply given Bond multiple versions of the same, resigned truth: Q’s withdrawal had far outdistanced his cold, and now the addict was a wreck in a whole new, heartbreakingly worse way. He was still coughing and sniffling, but now it was mixed in with shaking and worsening restlessness. Bond wasn’t even entirely sure whether Q slept at all – Bond knew that _he_ barely did. With the stealth of MI6’s best, he came up to the bedroom doorway multiple times when it sounded as though Q were fighting an assailant, only to see that he was fighting himself and, in a more literal sense, the blankets. Once, Bond came in with a tired sigh and untangled the slender man from the sheets. Q had awoken completely then, hazy eyes snapping open beneath that tousled fall of dark-brown hair, and the two had just stared at each other for a second. Q had looked frenzied, his eyes obviously bloodshot even in the dark, and he was drenched in sweat that turned his hair into lose curls in places – he looked desperate, and when he opened his mouth, Bond was prepared to hear the addict plead.

Instead, Q sucked a shuddering breath in and paused. His body quivered under Bond’s hand where the MI6 agent was still holding part of the blanket next to him. Very deliberately, Q said in a strained, cracking voice, “I will not beg.”

After that, he more or less went back to sleep, leaving a stunned and unsettled MI6 agent just standing in the quiet bedroom, wondering just how in over his head he was. Almost self-consciously, he reached forward to tuck in Q’s bony form just a little bit more, wishing he could do something about the intermittent shivering and fine-muscle twitches that were evident even in sleep now.

Q had slept for a bit and so had Bond then, with 007 waking later to more thrashing. This time, Q woke _himself_ up, and this time got up on audibly shaky legs to close the door. He didn’t want to disturb Bond.

Unfortunately for that plan, Bond had the hearing of a fox when he was paying attention, and just knowing that the door was now shut meant that Bond was aware of the agony going on behind it. It was at that point that the agent started bending to the sickening realization that the antidote simply wasn’t going to be ready before Q’s addiction tore him apart.

By noon, Bond couldn’t take it anymore.

Q hadn’t left the room, and Q hadn’t cried out. He’d been telling the solid truth when he’d declared that he wouldn’t beg, but the silence beyond the door was still broken by aborted sobs and frustration-riddled gasps, as Q fought and lost to himself. Barely feeling the healing wound in his leg now – the pain was blocked out, as if Bond were in the middle of a mission and didn’t have time for pain – Bond strode to the door, face grim.

Determined.

MI6 hadn’t come up with a solution yet, and if he waited much longer, the damage to Q would grow too serious to contemplate.

Bond turned the knob and opened the door.

It turned out that Q was sitting against it, although it was impossible to tell if this was with the intention of keeping it blocked or if his frenzied stumbling had just landed him there. Bond noticed because the door felt heavy, and once he was able to tilt his head inside curiously, he saw that it was because he was sliding Q across the floor. Somehow, that made Bond feel even worse, and he breathed out a tight sigh through his nose in mute apology before sidling through the door, not opening it any further. Q remained sitting where he was, beyond the point of moving coherently, one knee drawn up and one elbow propped on it, allowing one arm to drape across his face. His fist was in his hair, as if the sting of his fists pulling at the roots could ground him. It didn’t look as though it were worth it. Actually, it looked as though Q were dangerously close to being catatonic.

Instead of speaking, Bond walked around – naturally cat-quiet, bare feet moving with the padded pace of a lion – and then squatted down in front of Q. He could see that Q’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and shaky and congested because he was ill, too. The hacker’s hand shifted, running down distractedly and uneasily over his face as he pulled in a harsh, choking breath. He looked feverish because he probably was. _Definitely_ was. Bond would deal with things one at a time.

“Q.” Very rarely was Bond’s voice this soft.

Another sharp breath, this time a startled gasp as Q labored to come back to reality. He forgotten to put on his glasses, or else he’d been smart enough to realize that he wasn’t acting rationally enough to keep them from being broken and thus left them safely on the dresser. Therefore, those large hazel eyes never completely focused, but what little focus they gained was hard-won as they tried to zero in on Bond’s face. It cut Bond to see that those eyes were like when he’d first seen them – so strained and bloodshot that it was impossible to tell the color, only that they were dark and maybe hazel. The threads of green were somehow lost, leaving their depths muddy and alien.

“This is…” Q surprised Bond by speaking, voice raspy. The smaller man cleared his throat and tried to hide that his hands were shaking. “…Harder than I was expecting.”

“Q, you’re sick enough to collapse.”

In denial, Q shook his head, although he had to close his eyes even then against the nausea. “I’m...I’m not. I’m still in control.”

“Control doesn’t mean much if…” Bond cut his sentence off savagely, but then realized that he earned nothing but refusing to say what he feared. It was childish to think that things would happen just because he said them. “…You die. This is serious, Q.”

“I know that. And…And…” Eyes that were still closed now tightened even further shut in frustration as Q’s powerful brain tied itself in knots just trying to make sentences. “And I’m trying. I haven’t…begged.” The word cost Q nearly as much as the declaration of possible death had cost Bond, but it also gave the sick, skinny hacker strength. His eyes opened to drill into Bond’s ice-blue ones, full of determination. “I haven’t begged for that drug, and I’m not going to.”

Now Bond sighed again; this time, it was a deep, soul-weary sound, the sigh of a man who’s killed and killed and done things that will never be wiped from his slate. The kind of sigh that knows bad things will just keep piling on, and that he’ll be the one with his finger on the trigger every time. “No, you won’t. Because I’m not going to give you the chance.”

Q’s eyes had been drifting, but they suddenly sharpened as much as they could without glasses. It suddenly seemed unfair to deal with the hacker when he was effectively blind. “What?” he asked, voice hoarse but as sharp as a nail driving home.

“You’re not going to get better, and it’s going to be days if not weeks or months before anyone comes up with an antidote,” Bond explained patiently but in a flat, unreadable tone. The same look was in his eyes as when he’d pulled the trigger on an unarmed man in his last mission, a man who had been helpless and afraid and guilty of nothing more than seeing something he shouldn’t. Killed by Bond’s orders, an end already as good as written in stone when it was 007 with the gun. “If things keep progressing like this – and they will – you’ll die.”

Even with his brain barely functioning, Q was smart, and his brows were drawing low over his eyes already as he grew wary and heavily suspicious. The beginnings of angry, self-defensive tension began to radiate down his wiry muscles. “Bond…” he began in the most warning tone he possessed.

Bond didn’t wait. He’d been trained not to. He simply moved forward, from stillness into utmost motion in a second like a snake uncoiling from a standstill. Q snarled, the sound feral, as he met Bond’s hands even as those hands met Q’s shoulders, slamming the door shut and effortlessly pinning him against it. Up until now, Q had been drained and lethargic, but that didn’t mean that all of his energy was drained, and he proved it now by calling upon every ounce of energy in his body to fight. It was shocking, even to Bond, the MI6 agent, how vicious Q got and how fast. Without the need to ask exactly what Bond had meant (clearly Q’s deductive reasoning was working just fine), the hacker began struggling with all of his strength, and when his strength wasn’t enough, then all of his wit and cunning. Bond’s arms were like steel bars, hemming him in, and a fast, desperate stroke from Q’s hands proved that Bond’s chest was likewise muscled enough to make attacks like that next to useless. Processing this failure with the incredible speed of a computer, Q changed tactics, ruthlessly reaching up to strike at Bond’s face, one hand curled into a fist still while the other uncoiled the fingers, fully prepared to claw.

Bond accepted this, without any personal hurt or even annoyance. At a later date, he might even be impressed by how quickly Q went into self-preservation mode, knowing that holding back only made you dead. No MI6 agent could ever fault a person for attacking mean and fast…especially since, against an MI6 agent, it hardly made any difference. Still keeping his left hand solidly against Q’s shoulder to keep it pressed against the wall, Bond reacted with the speed and strength of a born predator, his free hand catching the hand reaching up to try and scratch nails across his face; he stopped Q’s other hand by proximity and body-weight alone, pressing close, hearing Q snarl in frustration and fearful fury. Q was spitting out curses now, swearing a blue streak up and down Bond’s family line, words meant to tear strips off him; there was no way the addict truly had the energy to spare for all of this, but desperation had brought out all of his survival instincts. Bond felt guilt for the fact that this would wreck Q later almost worse than slowly suffering was wrecking him now. Q couldn’t afford to fight with an MI6 agent, but he was doing it anyway.

Bond’s nearness and utter size already meant that Q couldn’t kick him – the MI6 agent was already practically sitting on his knees, although the sounds of Q’s heels hitting the floor as he scrambled for purchase was almost audible over his yelling. “I don’t have any choice, Q,” Bond said, voice steady and so flat that it gave emotions no purchase – not even regret or sadness. His face was so close that he saw the look of pure hatred and acid-hot panic written with perfect clarity across Q’s face when the addict jerked his head up to look at him, still trying to beat the larger, muscled man off. The hacker’s hand that was pinioned between their chests managed to twist enough that Bond felt fingernails digging into one side of his chest, hard and vicious. “It’s either this, or watch you slowly die.”

“Well…!” Q snapped in between struggles, trying to jerk sideways and failing, trying to free his left hand and failing, “…Maybe that’s…better!” Despite the verbal vitriol he continued to spew, there were now tears dampening the hacker’s lashes, spilling to run in utter silence down his nose and cheeks and lips and chin. Outwardly and inwardly, Bond knew that he couldn’t soften, but somewhere between the armor around his heart and the stone mask over his features, he felt the twinge of pity as Q’s fury began to shatter slowly into sobs of fear and loss and self-hatred. That was when Bond twisted his body – one coordinated heave of his weight and carefully controlled strength – so that he was abruptly pressing his back against Q, but had one skinny, pale arm pulled forward in his grasp. Q snarled like a wild thing, and there was no mistaking the sensation of his free hand clawing a wicked set of stripes right down Bond’s back through his shirt. Then Q tried to yank his other arm free, but Bond had pinned it beneath his armpit and in the iron circle of one hand. That kept Q effectively pinned behind him (legs thrashing ineffectively to his side) while Bond had perfect access to one straining, extending arm. The syringe he’d dropped strategically when he’d first moved he now scooped up.

“NOOO!” Q’s screech was like the sound of a violently dying thing in his ears, and he felt the hacker renew his efforts to get away; fingers pressed pin-point bruises to 007’s shoulder-blades, and Q’s head collapsed against his back. The wild, desperate denials fell apart into repetitive, feeble mantras, “No. Nonononono. No…” Tears were seeping into the back of Bond’s shirt even as he focused with clinical detachment on the job he had to do, ensuring no mistakes. That didn’t mean his heart wasn’t breaking somewhere inside that iron cage of will. “Please, don’t do this…” Q pleaded, and then he started coughing. This physically close, Bond could feel the fit rattling right through Q’s body. He got it under control just as Bond was lining up the needle carefully – almost gently, if such a thing were possible – with a vein. “I want it _sooo_ badly…!” the words sighed out of Q’s mouth like a lament, hot breath against the back of Bond’s shoulder. For a moment, Bond had expected the addict to go so far as to bite him, but then he realized: only half of Q was fighting, only the rational, brilliant, thinking side – the rest of Q wanted this drug so badly he was on the verge of breaking down. As his strength waned and the adrenalin got used up, that latter part was winning, draining Q’s will and ability to fight Bond.

But the last thing Bond wanted to ever hear again in his life was the sound of Q’s brilliant voice being used for begging, so he slipped the needle sharply into Q’s skin and pushed down the plunger, gritting his teeth against the sound of Q’s sigh.

The effect was almost immediate: the shaking stopped. In fact, nearly everything did, to the point that Q was doing nothing but breathe and even that was slow. The arm in Bond’s grip almost instantly went supple, the fisted hand relaxing out of its tight clench so that its fingers unfolded like pale, thin petals. The other hand that Bond had felt fisted in the back of his shirt slipped away, a trail of knuckles down his ribs and spine. Bond felt a bony shoulder prod him as Q’s body lost all of its wild tension, suddenly folding against Bond as if the MI6 agent were a pillow instead of an enemy. Q couldn’t help it.

“Yeeeeesss,” he sighed, and then Bond sighed, too, and was surprised and disturbed to find that he nearly sobbed. The voice whispering across the back of his arm wasn’t even familiar, and definitely didn’t belong to Q.

He released the addict's arm, knowing that it would fall without complaint. He had to turn slowly because he knew that Q would slip bonelessly right to the floor unless something – Bond – stopped him. So Bond leaned back first, carefully, feeling the moment when Q’s body shifted backwards to rest against the wall instead of Bond’s frame. Then Bond knelt up and turned around, his leg giving an angry twinge that he ignored, deciding that he deserved it. Q was leaned bonelessly against the wall, arms at his sides, palm-up on the floor, eyes blissfully closed and a smile looking utterly wrong on his drawn, flushed face.

“Q.”

The eyes flickered open. If there was recognition in there it was hidden beneath waves upon waves of the drug, and Q’s pupils were blown, making him look alien and strange. He twitched and shuddered as if sparked when Bond’s hand reached out reflexively to touch his arm. A bead of blood was already forming where the needle had gone in, and Bond wanted to wrap that soon to prevent any kind of infection and to stop the small amount of bleeding that unavoidably happened.

Whomever – whatever – was looking out of Q’s eyes was only a thin sliver of the real Q, the rest locked away and buried somewhere deep inside of him. No matter how deeply Bond looked, he couldn’t see the rest of Q screaming and trying to fight his way free, but that didn’t mean that wasn’t what was happening. Many people could have a smile on their face and a glazed look in their eyes without actually feeling that smile more than skin-deep. Bond should know. He was an expert at it.

“Q, you’re going to be all right,” Bond said slowly, even though there was very little chance that Q was in a state to understand. Or care. Q looked like he didn’t have a care in the world right now, although he twitched and hissed in obscene ecstasy whenever his skin touched something, as if little tails of fire were licking across his nerves and the drug was making him like it. Just the sight made Bond’s belly heat with a deep abiding anger that had no outlet.

He just stood. He paused, looming over Q, who’s eyes tried to follow, failed, and subsequently closed as they gave up. If Q had any self-preservation left, it was completely clouded by the drug now surging through his system, although Bond was glad to see that the sweating and shaking had subsided. Even the actual cold-symptoms seemed lessoned at the moment, which was good, at least. After accepting the fact that Q no longer had the facilities to hate or fear him even if he wanted to, Bond bent down and scooped Q up as if he were a child, gritting his teeth as the addict hissed in a gasp at the waves of sensation. It was all wrong, and made Bond feel even dirtier than he had before. But he pushed the self-pity down ruthlessly, instead grumbling, “Come on, Q,” as if he were just a fond child that had fallen asleep on the couch. Likewise, Bond turned and carried him the short ways to the bed.

The sheets were a tangled mess, but, predictably, Q caused no trouble as Bond straightened them. From the moment the 00-agent laid the smaller man on the bed, the addict barely moved. Bond reflected that, had he so wished, he could have just dumped Q on the floor like so much trash – as Caesar would no doubt have – the addict could have simply accepted that, too. But Bond was nothing like Q’s dealers and captors of before, so he carefully got the blankets in order and then pulled them up over the smaller man’s frame. Muscles that had been used to their full potential earlier to subdue Q now were put to use in gently coaxing Q into a comfortable posture for sleeping, then in tucking blankets snugly in around him. Q didn’t appear to notice beyond the simple, physical sensations, and Bond had to wonder what was even going on beneath the surface now, and how much of a torture it had to be. He figured it would be a few more hours at least before Q began to start to surface again, and would be groggy and uncoordinated for long after that.

The next fifteen minutes were conducted with the same efficient, gentle silence. Bond felt no more need to talk. At the same time, he felt a physical tug at his heart every time he took a step away from his unconventional housemate, even when it was just to get a glass of water. Getting Q to drink it wasn’t hard, since Q was not actually unconscious – merely in a state of extreme sensory-overload that doubled as total relaxation. His groggy eyes flickered open as a hand sifted its way beneath his head, lifting it before the edge of a glass touch his lip. “Hmm,” he wordlessly acknowledged the drink, swallowing on reflex and shivering. Then he blinked, brows knitting briefly as a little bit more sense surfaced. “Bond?”

“Yes,” Bond said simply, and left it at that. He was sick of himself – sick of all he’d had to do to Q – and for a moment wished that he could be 007 right now, and not James Bond, who had a bit of human in him despite being the killing machine of MI6. Self-loathing would have driven him from the room for a good stiff drink had not Q caught his attention: he’d eased the thin man back down onto the bed, but Q had remained slightly self-aware – enough so to understand a smidgen of what had just occurred, and to be sickened by it in turn. But while Bond was fighting remorse over his cruel but necessary actions, Q was assailed by a level of self-loathing that was equaled only by fires, destroying all around them until they have nothing to feed on but themselves. Q made a little, choked mewl and curled in on himself, tipping onto his side to present Bond with a bent back. Immediately Bond shook himself from his personal contemplations and reached out, sympathy crackling through him. “Hey, Q,” he found himself saying, just to try and divert the other’s attention.

Ignoring both the voice and the hand on his shoulder, Q just curled in tighter – or tried to. His muscles had turned traitor, and he was barely coordinated enough to form a loose imitation of a fetal position beneath the blankets. His narrow, finely-featured face showed his frustration in distinct clarity, a grimace of self-hatred and tear-inducing helplessness. His next sound could have been a pathetic cough or a choked sob, or a sickly combination of the two, and it had Bond immediately circling around to the other side of the bed where there was room for him to ease up onto the mattress as well. He settled down, with Q facing him and probably too clumsy to turn away again, a moment later.

Even in the throes of the drug that gave him so much twisted pleasure that he’d beg for it, Q was surfacing enough to be thoroughly mortified with himself. If Q was feeling any ecstasy, Bond doubted it was enough to block out the sense of powerlessness and loss and disgust that Q was drowning himself in. Bond’s hand found Q’s hunched shoulder again, this time squeezing and refusing to let go. Mindlessly, Q was retreating into himself, not wanting to show his face to a world that had just seen him do something so atrocious.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bond found himself saying in his low, steady voice, “ _I_ did. Don’t you forget that. You’re not the one who shot that bloody stuff into your system. You didn’t even ask for it – you didn’t beg, Q. You didn’t beg for a second.” Bond leaned back against the headboard, sighing as he stretched his legs out and his hand drifted of its own accord to Q’s tangled hair, beginning to idly stroke. “I did that,” Bond sighed. “I’m the one who did the dirty work. That’s my job.” His mouth twisted into a smile that had nothing to do with humor at all. “I’m Britain’s bloody best, so who else would be the one to do it?”

He left it in silence for a long time after that, but didn’t leave his perch on the bed. It just felt right. He’d made the decision for drugging Q up, so he may as well stay with him until it wore off again and Q was back to himself.

Even if Q might very well hate his guts by now.

Fortunately, Bond was a practical man: he realized that Q wasn’t very opinionated right now, and therefore wouldn’t be likely to disagree with Bond sitting with him for awhile and petting his head. If it comforted Bond as much as it comforted Q, so much the better then.

For the next three hours, every time Q tried to fold in on himself, Bond would murmur soft words and run caring touches over him, until the claws of self-loathing unhooked themselves. Bond couldn’t take away the drug, but he refused to just stand by and do nothing as Q cried and cried silently at the war lost with his addiction yet again.

“It’s not your fault, Q,” Bond kept murmuring calmly, hands on Q’s hair and eyes following the tracks of tears down the addict’s face, “It’s not your fault.”

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the sadness :'( It's an excuse to put more happiness later, I promise!!!


	14. Lions Have Teeth, but Kitten Have Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q decide whether all trust has been shattered, as Q recovers slowly from his drugs.
> 
> Not all sad :( There is also: more Bond cooking; more witty come-backs; and chocolate.

~^~

 

Bond didn’t fall asleep, mainly because his brain was still alert and tensely in ‘mission-mode’ and therefore unlikely to slow down anytime soon. Therefore, he was completely aware of the shifting patterns of Q’s breathing, of his uncoordinated, aborted movements, of the way that the hacker, throughout the night, tried to move closer to Bond or further away in turn. Bond knew he was the villain in this today, but he still felt a sharp pain in his chest whenever it seemed that his drugged housemate was trying to pull away from him.

That wound seemed to heal over a bit whenever Q – usually when he seemed to have faded away into actual sleep – twitched back in Bond’s direction, making the 00-agent think about the way a sleepy Q had twice now wandered up to him in sleep. The same addict who was often afraid of Bond while awake and conscious seemed to draw comfort from him when semi-conscious.

Q still had a fever. Bond had known that the instant he’d crowded the smaller man against the wall and forcibly pinned him, feeling the fever-heat of his skin. Otherwise, Bond was relieved to see that Q looked…well, not monumentally better, but still a lot less like he was dying slowly. Still too thin and bony by half and obviously high, Q wasn’t the model of good health.

Bond had become accustomed to his sharp angles and narrow frame, however, and hoped that those bloodshot eyes would return to clear, sharp hazel soon – although Bond tried not to contemplate just how much outrage and anger would be in those eyes as soon as they regained some awareness. It was with wryness that Bond hoped Q’s mind awakened before his body completely did, as when they first met, because glares were easier to deal with than running around and thrown objects. Still chuckling with jaded humor, Bond leaned his head back against the headboard again, hands at his side and part of his brain still monitoring Q to make sure that nothing was amiss.

‘Amiss’ had various definitions. A second later, Bond had a split-second to register that Q’s hand was moving, and then Q had scratched hard down the back of Bond’s right hand.

“I’m awake,” Q growled in a dark, slurred voice, eyes still closed but his expression now set in a tense, stormy scowl.

Bond looked down at the three (almost four) parallel red lines down the back of his hand considerately, accepting them ultimately as his due. Honestly, only a fraction of his due, but he doubted that Q had the skills right now to rain down any more retribution than this. Q had enough self-preservation normally not to do anything at all to a 00-agent, but right now his brain was more than likely still drugged halfway to crazy. “I deserved that,” Bond admitted with the gravity it deserved, giving his fist a faint flex and watching the red fingernail-marks flair.

Still closing his eyes tightly as if the world would spin if he didn’t, his frame tense because some fraction of him _knew_ that he was threatening a man with a license to kill, Q muttered invectives as if unsure what else to say. Bond had been called worse on many occasions (sometimes by enemies, sometimes by M, if he was being a pain), and therefore just sat and endured it philosophically. He wondered how long it would be before Q got enough motor control back to throw a lamp at him.

Bond was wrapped up in his idle musings enough that he only turned back to Q after the swearing had stopped, looking down to find that Q had not only gone quiet but turned his head into the pillow, trying and failing to crook an arm in front of his face. Hiding himself. He’d run out of things to say but had also ran out of the anger he’d been armoring himself with, and the little sob he couldn’t hold back made his face redden visibly with shame. “Oh, Q…” Bond’s voice and temperament softened immediately, and he reached out to touch the hacker’s obnoxious hair again before deciding that that would be seen as too intimate. Things were complicated enough already without Bond tossing more emotions into the mix.

The anger had faded to ash; Q was too tired and wasted to maintain it, but his mind was quick enough to feel ashamed about it. The left side of his face pressed into the pillow, he murmured quietly over his rebellious tongue, “You don’t have to babysit me. I’ve gone through this before.”

Abruptly, Bond decided that touching Q was _not_ too intimate, and dropped his hand onto the juncture between Q’s neck and his shoulder; part of Bond’s calloused, rough palm rested on smooth, pale, fever-warmed flesh, and part of it touched the collar of that ridiculous sweater Q had become so attached to. Immediately, Q flinched hard, all of his angry bravado being shown for a lie, like a cat fluffed up against a dog: he cowered under Bond’s hand. Bond had done many things in his life that were bad, but somehow this hurt more, because he knew that he was seeing the evidence of all the trust he’d built with Q going down the drain. Q’s eyes had snapped open, fearfully trying to find Bond’s face, because he didn’t have the coordination to physically do anything yet. The fear had to be incredible.

“I’m not babysitting,” Bond argued, fighting to keep his tone conversational and nonthreatening as he watched Q. It felt as though a fist were tight around his throat, forcing him to clear it. For a moment, he considered removing his hand to let Q calm down, but decided that that wasn’t likely to happen. He’d physically attacked Q only hours ago, and drugged him against his will – the hacker wasn’t likely to calm down unless Bond left him alone entirely, which 007 wasn’t about to do. Instead, Bond squeezed lightly, feeling taut, lean muscles give unwillingly under his fingers. Q was tense, but at least his nerves didn’t seem to be hypersensitive anymore.

“Then why are you still here?” Q said, very softly, swallowing once before finding the courage even to speak in that hesitant whisper. His voice was tentative and riddled with distrust.

Q was still treating Bond’s hand as if it were a snake, and that finally was too much to tolerably maintain; the blonde man withdrew his hand. His voice was a tired sigh as he admitted something that he’d often felt himself thinking on missions, as he stood over broken bodies and watched their life bleed away, “Maybe because I feel enough like a monster already without leaving you alone to deal with this.”

To that, Q had nothing to say, but at least he didn’t try to scratch Bond again. Silence reigned as the tired 00-agent leaned against the headboard and the drugged hacker held himself still next to him as if afraid that any twitch would set off an earthquake. It wasn’t a peaceful coexistence, but it came close to being a truce so long as Bond didn’t move. Whenever Bond shifted, his sharp, glacial eyes were able to pick out the fine tremors that slivered through Q’s slim frame.

“Can I have my glasses?” Q finally said, his voice carefully modulated either because he was trying for a neutral tone or because he was making a supreme effort not to slur his words. Either way, the result was a tense, non-argumentative vocalization, and it made Bond wince just a hair at the lack of emotion in it.

Worse yet, he realized that Q’s glasses were on the table on the opposite side of the bed. Nonetheless, he nodded, replying calmly, “Of course,” before leaning to reach over the addict.

Predictably, Q shrunk into the bed, cowering away as Bond’s muscular torso loomed over him in a bridge of muscle and bone. With a mix of sadness, pity, and dry amusement, Bond wondered if he should worry about Q attacking him at close range, but all Q did was hold his breath until Bond managed to hook his fingers onto the spectacles. Bond resumed his earlier position, purposefully not looking at the way Q pulled away from him and was watching with a trapped, cornered expression. Judging by the way the smaller man had his fingers clenched in the sheets under him and the way his frame was rigid, he wanted to move but still couldn’t. With all of his heart, Bond wished he knew a way to shorten the time that Q would remain helpless like this, but he didn’t know any answers. “Here.” He handed Q his glasses, knowing that Q had to hate being blind as well as physically crippled.

The hand that reached up to grab the glasses was clumsy and desperate, a poor combination when Q only managed to snatch air and half-hook one finger on a lens before slipping off. He swore and blushed furiously as he ended up having nothing, except, perhaps, the burning knowledge that Bond couldn’t have missed his klutzy attempt at a grab. Shaking now with humiliation, Q stared at his glasses and for a moment looked torn between trying again, never trying – _ever_ again – for fear of another failure, or crying. A red blush stretched up painfully to cover his cheekbones, neck, and even the tips of his ears where they were just visible past his wild mop of hair.

Sometimes it was disconcerting to remember that Q, despite all of the ignominious things he’d been put through in his life, had quite a lot of pride, and Bond decided to spare that pride from another failed attempt at motion. He shifted his grip on the glasses a little and began to slide them forward over Q’s face, pausing only when the hacker sucked in a petrified breath and made to pull away. “Easy, Q,” Bond found himself saying out of reflex.

“I’m not a dog,” was the piqued retort, “You don’t have to talk to me like I am.”

Bond’s reply was much calmer, flat and untroubled as could be, “I’m not talking to you like you’re a dog, you barmy little stoat, I’m talking to you as a human being who deserves to calm down every once in awhile.” Passive aggressive. Bond was a pro at it. When it shut Q’s mouth like a trap, he counted it as a win and slid the glasses the rest of the way onto Q’s face, tucking the legs neatly over his ears despite the wild tendrils of hair that were determined to get in the way. “There.” Maybe Bond’s hand kindly touched Q’s cheekbone as it retreated; maybe his words were light, but his smile was real. “Now, do you want something to eat?”

For a long moment, it seemed that Q wouldn’t answer, although his bloodshot eyes were at least focused on Bond’s face now in unreadable scrutiny. Finally, still frowning stormily, the hacker retorted, “It’s always food with you, isn’t it? Gah – no wonder you’re such a bloody big monster instead of a normal-sized person like the rest of us.”

It took a supreme effort not to start laughing uproariously and to melt with relief at the same time. Snarky tone aside, this was an olive branch, or as close as he was going to get to one. “Supper it is then,” he replied incorrigibly, the same stubborn humor that had a way of driving M mad when she wanted him to be serious. Finally feeling his muscles relax a bit, the agent rolled off the bed and to his feet with leonine grace, only to be stopped by Q’s hesitant voice at the door.

“Er…Bond?” Still lying down and mostly hidden by blankets at this angle, Q admitted uncomfortably, “I don’t… Well, what I mean to say is…” He sighed, frustrated at his lack of verbal grace, but before Bond could gently tell him that he didn’t mind the stuttering or the tongue-tripping, Q blurted out more or less what he wanted to say, “I don’t always keep food down well when I’m like this. It has to be simple or you’re going to be seeing it again half a minute after it goes down.”

“Didn’t I say soup?” Bond played along lightly, even though his mind was seething at the thought of Q’s previous keepers, who likely hadn’t cared a whit about what they fed their pet hacker or how well he vomited it back up again. Q was far too thin as it was. Bond left the room silently, his leg barely slowing him up anymore, to put together some classically healthy soup that would be easy on Q’s stomach.

The other upside to soup was that it could be made quickly, so Bond was back in the bedroom practically before he could start worrying about leaving Q alone again. A bowl of soup balanced carefully in hand (making him look positively domestic, he reflected with humor), he reentered Q’s present domain again.

This time, Q was sitting, and Bond felt a painful pang in his chest at the familiarity of the scene. Q was sitting, hunched in a slack pose that spoke of limited strength and less muscle control, just as he’d been when Bond had first met him – and left him behind, looking back before he escaped out the window. The only difference was that this bed was nice and warm, and Q was wearing a ridiculous sweater of Bond’s instead of whatever throwaways someone had seen fit to give the addict. Still, the bloodshot eyes were wary, and Q swayed a bit in an aborted attempt to move.

“Just soup. No poison,” Bond joked with the kind of humor than any 00-agent had to learn to maintain sanity. It was either laugh about it or cry and go nuts. Perhaps dark humor like this was what had painted Bond’s smile in such wolfish colors even when he was only smirking, as if morbid jokes came in an ink that stained. He came right up to the side of the bed nearest Q, the hacker watching him with distrustful eyes the whole way. Q had been leaning away by increasing millimeters with every step Bond took, and finally lost his balance so that he was forced to put a hand out and brace himself. The hacker looked down with embarrassment and flushed a painful red, breathing out a forceful sigh of frustration.

“A meal will steady you a bit,” Bond assured him even though he had no idea if he was telling the truth. Lying was something he was good at, though, and it was a novelty to lie for someone’s good rather than someone’s downfall. Hands deft and light for a man who often used them to break people’s bones, 007 set the bowl and spoon down on the blankets over Q’s lap. When the hacker continued to look at it with a twist of his lips that spoke of nausea, Bond – trying admirably to hide the smug smile pulling at one side of his mouth like a hook – magically produced a square of chocolate and waved it under Q’s nose.

Surprisingly, Q didn’t jump this time, although he did freeze up. However, as Bond had hoped and predicted, Q’s eyes immediately locked on the chocolate and immediately shifted from wary to predatory. His sweet-tooth was suddenly at the fore. “Maybe if you start with this,” Bond coaxed, “the soup will look better.”

“You’re drawing conclusions from my devouring of the honey aren’t you?” Q asked, eyes never leaving the chocolate even now starting to get warm in Bond’s fingers. He hadn’t given in to the urge to move and take it yet, though.

Shamelessly, Bond replied, “Yes.”

“And using that to lure me in to eating real food?”

“You are a genius, aren’t you?”

“Sarcastic git.” Q’s hand snaked up and took the chocolate. His continued clumsiness presented itself in the faint tremor of his hands, causing his long, slim fingers to stumble over Bond’s hand for a moment before finally catching on the chocolate. Then it was in his mouth, and no amount of snark could have stood in the way of the pure bliss that followed. Q closed his eyes and moaned with happiness. While Bond continued to grin triumphantly, Q suddenly cracked on eye open to glare at him out of the edge of his glasses. “I can see where you broke this one, so I know that it came from a larger piece. Where’s the rest?”

“And you call me _bossy_ ,” Bond sidestepped the question, sparks lighting in his pale-blue eyes.

“I’ll bite you. Don’t think I won’t. Chocolate is a serious matter.”

Q’s humor, as always, was as surprising as it was unique, making the light in Bond’s eyes flair brighter with pleasure. “Soup, then more chocolate,” he insisted as he shifted his weight onto his good leg and crossed his arms. “If you can make threats then I can use ultimatums.”

Q growled but otherwise didn’t argue anymore, taking up the spoon and starting in on the soup. Tentatively at first, he gave it a try, but was soon working his way methodically through the bowl. Bond accepted the silence that followed, aware that the bit of teasing had been quite a big step, but that Q had obviously reached his limits for threatening an MI6 agent. Bond could have told him that he rather enjoyed a bit of good-natured threatening, but decided to just leave things as they were. The hacker was shaky but stable, and although he was silent now, he had also stopped leaning away as if afraid Bond would jump him again. It wasn’t exactly a sign of that shattered trust returning, but Bond would take what he could get. Wordlessly, he produced another chunk of chocolate and lay it down next to Q’s knee, sitting down on the bed at the same time – balancing reward with threat. Since Q’s eyes immediately flashed away from the soup and to the chocolate instead of fearfully towards Bond sitting nearby, it was a good strategy.

“I’m beginning to grow suspicious of your intentions,” Q noted.

Bond felt something stir inside of him, even if his eyes showed nothing. Voice low and smooth, he replied back casually, “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

As it was, Q’s thoughts hadn’t been drifting where Bond’s had. “Anyone else would think you were trying to bribe me into hacking something.”

It would have been a joke, if Bond hadn’t noticed the way Q had swallowed nervously before saying it. “Oh, Q,” he sighed, leaning back and supporting himself on well-muscled arms even as he looked at Q with frankness that edged on sadness. Q didn’t look up, but he hadn’t picked up the chocolate either – a bad sign. “Q. Q!” Bond hardened his tone by careful degrees until eyes looked up at him through a tangled fringe of hair, then he finished, “You know I’d never make you hack into things like some sort of tool! I’m not your boss, or your handler, or anyone else who just wants you for what you can do.”

“I wasn’t saying you would,” Q argued back weakly, looking down at the soup that he hadn’t finished but at least had made a dent in before growing maudlin.

Bond pressed calmly, “But you were thinking it.” When Q’s ear turned bright red again with embarrassment (that pale skin was an absolute curse, it honestly was, but at least it allowed Bond to read Q pretty well), Bond just shifted his leg enough to nudge Q’s knee with his. “Eat your chocolate, Q. There’s no hook in it to catch you and reel you in.”

Q snorted despite himself at the oddly fitting analogy, but then moved a hand to pluck up the sweet substance before it could melt and get on the blankets. He ate this one more appreciatively. “Thanks, Bond.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 

~^~

 

The day had been almost entirely taken up by this fiasco, which was almost fortunate: it meant that Q didn’t have much time to grow frustrated with his own immobility. Night would be setting in soon.

The soup had gone over well – or, at least, it had gone down and stayed down. The chocolate had obviously gone over even better, although Q had primly refused to ask for more. Bond had still given him a third piece before shifting to a chair in the corner where he sat down to read, giving Q space but tacitly refusing to leave him alone. Q grumbled at this like a twitchy cat, but since he still couldn’t stand or lean over far enough to grab the lamp and throw without toppling over, Bond got his way.

Bond did leave for a little bit. He didn’t explain why, but had been noticing Q’s growing frustration at his immobility. In an effort to combat the boredom, Q had tried to lay down and go to sleep early, but that hadn’t worked in the slightest because Q’s cold had reared its ugly head – the poor hacker’s nose had started alternately running like a tap and plugging up so that he couldn’t breathe through his nose. After that, Q had sat and pathetically blown his nose for what felt like ages. Clearly, Q wanted Bond out of the room if only so he could suffer in isolation.

But when Bond left, he returned very quickly with an iPod. “Here,” he said, glad that Q had finally given up on flinching. Swaying a little but straightening to inspect the small piece of technology in Bond’s hand, Q narrowed his eyes beneath lowered brows. Bond eased the iPod out of his hand onto a patch of blanket that wasn’t populated by used tissues. “It hasn’t worked since I had a mission in Beijing and my luggage went off a roof. Can you fix it?” Bond just coolly and idly met Q’s gaze as the smaller man met his eyes in surprise. “Do you want tools? Or are your hands still too shaky?”

“Oh!” Q’s brain was belatedly catching up with the new events, and he looked back down at the object in his lap. “No, no…I mean, yes, I can fix it, and no, my hands aren’t too shaky.” He fisted one hand stubbornly, making Bond wonder if this was a lie or not. If nothing else, however, Q looked determined to do the work.

Much more quietly, Bond added solemnly, “Q, you don’t have to. I said that I wouldn’t make you do anything, and I just gave it to you because sitting here and not being able to do anything must be torture.”

Startled at Bond’s insight (the man was a bloody mindreader at the worst times), Q mantled and looked up again, his eyes so large behind his glasses. “I…” He saw from one look at Bond’s face that lies would be as useful as butterflies in a gale, so he shut his mouth and fumbled clumsily for something else to say besides a denial. “I…No. No, I mean, I _do_ want to fix it. I do. It’s yours and…and if it’s broken, it should be fixed.” Strangely enough, that wasn’t quite what Q had felt he wanted to say at the end. What he had almost said but couldn’t – wouldn’t – articulate was that he felt driven to fix anything Bond gave him, just as he felt driven to keep him safe. Sitting now with all of his hard-won coordination focused on just that, and with his cold making his whole head feel stuffed with putty as he looked up at Bond, all Q could think was that he’d never say ‘no’ to that face. He wasn’t sure when, but at some point, the rugged, sharp planes of that face had become a pivot-point in his life, something he revolved around and which things hinged on. His safety hinged on Bond; his fears hinged on Bond; his actions hinged on where the man was or what he did. It wasn’t just that the iPod was broken – it was that the iPod was _Bond’s_ and it was broken.

Realizing that he was staring at Bond, Q turned away from the frosted blue of those intense eyes and returned his attention to the iPod. “That tool kit that you had earlier would be nice, thank you.” It would, indeed, keep him busy, even if those tools were like having a sword to cut a slice of cheese.

Determinedly, as Bond returned with the requested tools and then retired to his chair to read again, Q refused to think about how, at some point, he’d also decided that Bond was easy to stare at because he was so striking.

Even thinking ‘striking’ was a lie.

_Handsome._

Q refused to think about that, too, and buried his brain in the inner workings of the broken iPod, his cold and the drugs in his system helping to perfectly muddle his head.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a few feelings between these two! I hope to develop that a bit more over the next few chapters, but it's still a slow-build. 
> 
> Writing of Q's temper is fun :3


	15. Dreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is still sleep-walking.  
> Unfortunately, said sleep-walking ends with unexpected consequences when Q wakes up afterwards...  
> Q and Bond fight.  
> Sad Q.  
> Don't blame either of them.  
> It was bound to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad chapter! Sorry.

~^~

 

After all of the chaos of the day, going to bed was something of a relief, especially since it was a remarkably unremarkable affair. Q’s tiredness finally overruled his cold, and Bond looked up from his book to see the still-unsteady hacker moving the tools and bits of technology from the blankets over his lap to the bedside table, his glasses soon following. Without his glasses, he looked even younger, and Bond couldn’t tell if he was entranced or amused by the way it also made his mop of hair look even more unbelievably unruly. Still walking on metaphorical eggshells around Bond, Q finished quietly getting ready for bed before more or less toppling over onto the pillow. Before Bond could ask, the addict mumbled out, “I’ll see if I can walk tomorrow.” He went on a little bit more sarcastically, a faint, bitter bite in his glib words, “There’s a 75% chance that I can walk now, but that chance will rise exponentially by morning, so I may as well wait and not make a fool of myself.”

The self-recrimination was gentler than it could have been, so Bond felt it was safe to josh back, “You’re not slurring anymore, at least. You’re practically back to your regular verbally caustic self.”

“Stuff it,” came the reply, and Bond chuckled.

Unbeknownst to the 00-agent, Q was trying not to chuckle, too, even as he felt a pocket of warmth open up inside of him at the warm, low sound of Bond’s laugh.

 

~^~

 

Bond loitered in the room only a little longer – just until he heard the familiar sound of the addict’s breath settling into a steady rhythm of sleep. Bond also wanted to keep reading, and he couldn’t do that while also turning off the lights. So, book in hand and relief on his brain that this trial seemed to be drawing to a close, Bond got up with silent, near-catlike grace, and flicked off the last light before padding back out to his usual sleeping place on the couch. He left the door to the bedroom open, obviously, just to make sure he heard any trouble starting up. There always seemed to be trouble with Q.

After another three chapters, Bond flicked off yet another light, and settled down on the couch to sleep – but only after he’d wandered purposefully (wondered purposefully – wasn’t that an oxymoron?) past the bedroom to ensure that Q was still breathing normally with the exception of the occasional, sleepy cough. Good. Not healthy, but still well enough. 007 traipsed back to his couch and lay down to sleep without preamble. As a 00-agent, he was trained to wake up at the least provocation, but he was also well-versed in the art of falling asleep in under a minute.

He closed his eyes: he fell asleep. Simple. Efficient.

And then he was opening his eyes again, his internal clock telling him that no more than a few hours could have passed, because his senses were telling him that he heard footsteps. Eyes coming open – as trained – just a slit to take in the shifting shadows of the room, Bond was only faintly surprised to note that it was Q again.

“When are you going to sleep through the night?” James mumbled to himself as he sat up, slowly so as not to startle the hacker if Q were in a jumpy mood. It was hard to tell just what he was dealing with when faced with Q in the middle of the night. At least this proved that Q could walk…

Bond got up, keeping his eyes warily and carefully on his odd housemate the whole time as he got closer. True, Q was standing, but he wasn’t particularly steady-looking, and Bond tensed subtly in preparation to catch him if he suddenly lost his balance. Also, as he got close enough to discern more details in the shadowy room, it was obvious that Q was sleep-walking again. That was a relief, in away: sleepy-Q had never been violent…in fact, sleepy-Q had been quite affectionate…

At the moment, sleepy-Q was starting to grow agitated, limbs quivering as he wrapped them around his middle and feet shuffling as he tried to work with a balance that was obviously less than optimal. “I…I…I need to…” The edges of panic were settling on an expression that otherwise was painted in vulnerable confusion, and he didn’t seem to see Bond even when the larger man came into his range of vision. Predictably, Q still lacked his glasses, and his over-long, tousled hair was falling in his eyes, but those eyes showed no interest in focusing anyway. He took a stumbling step forward that nearly sent him crashing into Bond before catching himself and reaching out as if to point uncertainly at the kitchen. “The laptop,” he started to speak more coherently, but also with increasing agitation, “I need it…need…need it…” Bond began to worry.

Calmness was falling to alarm at a shocking pace all of a sudden, and even in the time it took Bond to step forward, Q’s breathing had picked up to rushed, sharp gasps. The laptop wasn’t actually in the kitchen, but Q kept staring like it was – like he was seeing it there in his mind’s-eye – and made another lunge for it that was ruined by his lack of coordination. Bond stepped that last pace forward and caught him, but by then Q had flown right into a full-blown state of terror. He was buzzing with frightful energy and so tense that he was like a bundle of wires, and when Bond grasped him in his arms, the younger man screamed.

“I need to get it! To get…get…the laptop! I need it, I didn’t fix it right, it didn’t-didn’t-didn’t…” He shook his head wildly, pushing back against Bond’s chest without actually seeming to recognize who or what was restraining him. His voice had risen a pitch in desperation, and cracked between words even as the last vestiges of the drug made him clumsy – Bond, in surprise, had loosened his grip for a second, and the hacker had nearly sprawled into a heap on the floor before Bond’s reflexively grasped at him again. Eyes squeezed shut so hard they were watering, Q continued to babble madly, “It’s all wrong…went so wrong! I need to fix it…to keep…” He slowed down, growing dazed, but the look of hopeless fear on his face didn’t fade. Now with his thin fingers wrapped in a mindless death-grip on Bond’s biceps, Q seemed to try and take in more of the room…but he wasn’t awake yet.

“I didn’t do enough. I wanted to…wanted to…keep safe…so very much,” Q sobbed and seemed to crumble, looking around the room as if it were a wasteland.

Bond shifted so that one arm was wrapped around behind Q’s back – feeling the arc of each rib with each gasp of sharp, ragged breath – to free up his other hand to cup the back of Q’s neck in a comforting gesture. “You’re safe,” he crooned softly, and despite that this was the voice of a trained killer, it was a low and soft as black velvet.

But Q’s next words turned Bond’s world on its ear, proving that he’d subtly misinterpreted the hacker. Q’s safety wasn’t the concern. “You were shot,” the smaller man cried out softly in the quiet of the room, making Bond go still all of a sudden. “Please, please,” he pleaded so brokenly that Bond could almost feel the shattered pieces, “don’t be shot…” Q shifted one hand to press it against Bond’s chest, fingers kneading the muscle over his heart through his nightshirt as Q sought to stem the flow of blood that his mind had conjured. “I want so badly for you to be safe,” Q continued to say in that shattered, crushed voice.

All caution (and perhaps common-sense) gone, Bond ground Q into a bone-creaking hug. He wanted to hold Q so close that neither could doubt the other existed, so close that whatever nightmares Q’s brain had concocted wouldn’t have room to breathe. Bond knew what Q was feeling – he’d had dreams like this, and he knew that there was nothing in the world so painful. “There’s no blood, Q,” he reassured the smaller man gently, hearing and feeling Q grunt in sleepy surprise and shiver. Then the other’s head turned into his neck, fitting there perfectly even though Bond felt the cold dampness of tears smear against the underside of his jaw.

All this while, despite the rather smothering hug, Q had kept one hand pressed against Bond’s chest stubbornly. And now he was repeating, pathetically and heartbreakingly, “There’s no blood, there’s no blood, there’s no blood…” as if he’d physically latched onto Bond’s words like a tether.

Slowly, slowly, Q quieted, until the two of them were just standing in the middle of the room, Q leaning against him and Bond holding him more gently and sensibly now, aware that most any 00-agent had the strength to crush the wind out of someone twice Q’s size if they weren’t careful. Q had his shoulders tipped forward, as if to curl into Bond’s solid frame, but otherwise appeared to have fallen asleep again, right on his feet and standing right there with Bond. It was almost ridiculous, or would have been if Bond didn’t still have Q’s terrorized scream ringing in his ears.

Staring straight ahead into the night-cloaked room, Bond tried to digest it all. Q had dreamed that Bond had died, had been so panicked by it that he’d slept-walked right out of bed in the hopes of doing something. Precisely what he’d wanted to do, Bond had no idea, because Q’s skills with a laptop were as incredible as they were mysterious to him. Bond, like any 00-agent worth his or her salt, was very familiar with nightmares, so it didn’t take Q’s panic or his shriek for Bond to sympathize.

But the episode had passed now. Consciously relaxing his muscles – forcing out the adrenalin, if possible – Bond allowed himself to feel a moment of relief before loosening his grip still more and stepping back. Surprisingly, Q followed, with the mindless stubbornness of a magnet. Fingers now latched onto the material of Bond’s nightshirt nearly the collar, Q followed Bond’s step back without actually giving any indication that he had woken up at all. The reflex was unexpectedly endearing, especially to a man who was not used to people seeing him – even on a subconscious level… _especially_ on a subconscious level – as a source of comfort. Mostly, people feared him, a category that had included Q more often than not. That was what Bond was used to.

But that wasn't what Q was doing now.

So, unable to deny this warmth that had sprung up in his gut at the realization that a sleepy-Q was clinging to him for safety, Bond continued to back up a bit, but now kept his arms around Q to pull the younger man with him. Q followed stumblingly, but since his feet were almost on top of Bond’s, this didn’t really make much of a difference. Soon, Bond was at the couch again, smirking wryly at Q’s continual insistence (unconscious insistence) to sleep there. “Do you want to sleep here?” Bond asked, smile still playing at one corner of his mouth while his eyes tilted down to look at Q. All he could see was the back of his head, but even that was kind of funny and cute, even if he doubted that Q wanted to know that.

There was no answer. Then again, it seemed very obvious by now that Q wasn’t even sleep-walking anymore – he literally was unconscious. Some trick of his brain was maintaining motor control. Still, Bond continued to query in case some part of Q’s conscious mind were dazedly listening, “Do you want me to stay with you?”

Again – no answer – but since Q wouldn’t let go and seemed _very_ disinclined to move away from Bond by as much as millimeters, Bond sat down with him anyway. It was an awkward shift: Q was all limbs and no cooperation, and Bond’s leg was working again but still a little stiff and sore as the flesh mended. So, while Bond swore quietly under his breath, the two managed to sit down as much as topple down onto the couch. Bond half expected Q to wake up and go right into an outraged panic, but at least life still contained some miracles: Q remained completely out. The hacker sure could sleep when he got around to it.

Feeling more than slightly guilty for taking advantage of Q’s docile, clingy temperament right now, Bond rearranged them so that this time Q wasn’t lying on top of him. Instead, this time, he tucked the thin frame against his side and made good use of the couch’s width, so they were reclining side by side. Q might have been asleep now, but the dream must have lingered like a bad taste in his subconscious, because one hand refused to leave its place on Bond’s chest. It wasn’t directly over his heart, which either meant that sleepy-Q had a poor grasp of anatomy, or in the dream, the bullet had been slightly off…and Q was still trying to stop the flow of blood.

Feeling his perfectly-fine heart twist in sympathy, Bond took a moment to unbend Q’s fingers. The hacker whimpered, a mew of protest as he was forced to relinquish the handful of cloth, but stopped when Bond gently raised Q’s fingers to his lips to kiss their tips chastely and gently. “Thank you, Q,” was all he said.  
Because what else did you say to someone who tried to save your life, albeit in a dream? Precious few people cared about 00-agents, and 007 was no exception.  
So Bond relaxed against the arm of the couch, taking peace when he could get it, and was listening to the sound of Q’s steady breathing when he fell asleep.

 

~^~

 

Q had had the most horrid dream, and it was only now, as his brain seemed to kick-start itself a little, that he realized that a dream was all it was. He felt his insides squirm and tie into knots at the memory, so crystalline and brutal and clear, hitting his mind like a freight-train of images. He felt an echo of that fear again just remembering the ear-rending bark of the gun and seeing the corresponding blossom of blood on Bond’s chest…so much blood…

Aware that it had just been a dream but still unable to shake the visceral reality of the fear, Q twitched and rose up through the levels of sleep, hand spasming and gripping cloth.

What startled Q into full awareness was the feel of muscle underneath that.

 

~^~

 

Peacefulness just never could last long. Bond resisted the urge to growl in frustration when he sensed Q not only come awake, but come awake with the kind of jolt that meant this wasn’t going to end quietly. Considering how late Q usually slept, Bond hadn’t really expected this: it was easily before 5 AM, and Q had, for the first time, awoken to the realization that he was sharing a rather small sleeping space with Bond.

“What the bloody-?!” Q spluttered as he pushed himself up, his embarrassment only worsening because the only place he actually had to put one of his hands was on Bond himself. Q was mortified. All he could think was _‘This could_ not _get any worse.’_ Startled, confused, and just about burning up from embarrassment, he tried to sit up without making things worse, and ended up falling over onto his back on the other side of the couch, legs sprawled over Bond’s like a game of pick-up-sticks. All of this combined with the shattered trust of yesterday suddenly made something snap inside of him. _“What_ am I doing here?! I said I could handle myself, and I thought you understood that?!” _‘I am being completely irrational – why am I being completely irrational about this?’_ The barbed-wire ball of emotions in Q’s chest didn’t answer, and like the growls of a cornered dog, hot words kept spewing out. “And now I find myself here-?!”  
Q was being irrational, with the sharp bite of a feral dog, but Bond reacted no better as Q’s words stung and brought out the heat in him. No one did ‘anger’ better than a 00-agent. Eyes turning from blue shadow to colorless crystal in the still-dark room, Bond sat up with the slow, controlled power of a lion as he glared. While Q’s words were sudden and sharp, flung out with none of his usual precision, Bond’s words were slow and steady as if chosen with care instead of simply dragged out of some sullen pit in the back of his head, “You think _I_ brought you here?”

Q couldn’t see much beyond the general shape of Bond’s muscular body in the dark without his glasses, but the lack of spectacles made his own sudden glare all the more visible as he lowered his brows and narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but Bond, better at timing, cut him off.

“For your information, Q, you came stumbling out of the bedroom right over to me.” He paused a moment, letting that sink in and douse some of the hacker’s spark of temper. “I would have sent you back, but you wouldn’t bloody let go of my shirt, so don’t yell at me.” Bond wasn’t a talkative man, but that didn’t mean he was useless with words. It just meant that he’d been trained to use them as useful things – as weapons. And sometimes he forgot that. With Q now quiet at the other end of the couch, the 00-agent finished, “This is the third time you’ve done this, and don’t ask me what you’re doing here. I don’t know.”

Q sat, as silent and still as a stone in winter, his eyes now wide beneath his tangled fall of hair. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Bond’s words ricocheted around inside of his head like a bottle of medication spilling out all over a bathroom floor, the kind that was so numerous that you didn’t know how you’d ever pick them up and put them back. Q could tell that he was shaking and wondered when he’d started.

Some of the instinctual armor that Bond had raised up around himself shifted, allowing him a more humane glimpse at the situation, if only barely. “Q?” he asked, glad that Q had stopped blaming him for something that wasn’t his fault, but also aware that the silence had descended with unexpected swiftness.

“I…” Q choked up, the words stumbling like they had broken legs in the back of his throat, and he had to clear it and try again. He felt sheer mortification at himself, and could almost feel his mind fracturing in the face of all this: confusion, shock, and the first bloody slices of humiliation were battering at the edges of his brain. “I apologize. It was wrong to yell at you,” he finally said with much less fire in his voice than before, and wondered where the calmness in his voice could possibly have come from when his brain was falling apart as it tried and failed to compute all of this. ‘ _I’ve been coming out here and falling asleep with Bond?! Trying to…trying to sleep_ with Bond _?!’_ The questions repeated themselves, hammer-blow by hammer-blow, in his mind behind the thin veneer of calm he’d somehow acquired for his face and words.

Bond was sharper and quicker at reading vocal inflections than most, and therefore still heard the faint quaver of shock in Q’s voice. “No harm done,” he said, as his defensive instincts receded still more. It was a curse of being in life-or-death situations so often: his reflexes were ingrained, and so often flared up out of his control and receded only slowly. When he’d fought with Q just yesterday, it had been different: it had been an actual fight, and Bond had welcomed those reflexes that made him an impenetrable wall, but now he sensed that they were making him callous. Self-preservation at its strongest made it hard to think of others with any clarity…

Unexpectedly, with only a twitch of his legs first to preempt the motion, Q got up off the couch and nearly tripped right over the coffee-table. Then he was making his way almost desperately around the couch and towards the bathroom. “I’ve-I’ve gotta go,” he stuttered, wishing the ground would just swallow him up. Hearing Bond getting up behind him only caused a burst of panic to ignite behind his ribcage. “I…I’m not feeling well. I’ve just got to…” He made it to the bathroom then and quickly ducked in, sliding the door shut behind him and then locking it with a shaky twitch of his fingers. Usually so smart, his brain couldn’t even fathom good excuses now, so instead of finishing whatever he’d started to say, he stood facing the door and buried his face in his hands, aware that he still didn’t have his glasses and was now locked in Bond’s bathroom blind.

“Q? Q, are you all right?” Bond’s voice came through the closed door almost on the heels of Q’s locking the door. He heard the agent try the knob, just like the heard the tension giving Bond’s words edges that normally weren’t there. Q heard all that, but he wasn’t listening.

 _‘I’ve been trying to sleep with Bond.’_ That knowledge continued to make a chaotic mess of his brain, swinging through his carefully-ordered thoughts like a wrecking ball. He was barely aware of when he slid down the wall to sit on the tiles, just between the door and the sink. If Bond forced the door open, he’d probably hit him. “I’m all right,” he heard himself fabricating acceptable replies, lies that were actually close to the truth, “I sometimes feel…a bit sick…as my drugs wear off.” It was very close to the truth, because he felt like he was going to puke, just not because of the mess of drugs in his system. His nose was plugged up and his throat hurt more than ever, and it suddenly seemed that the whole world was conspiring to make him miserable.

 _‘Why?! Why can’t I just be a little bit normal?!’_ he found rage suddenly in his head, and pressed his face once more into his hands until he saw stars against the backs of his eyelids. _‘I’m already a drug-addict, a criminal, and now I have to be gay, too?!’_ He’d read Bond’s record, his penchant for sleeping with scores of beautiful and often dangerous women, and figured Bond must find all of this the most ridiculous thing ever. Suddenly, for being the genius that he was, Q felt that he had all of the brain-power of a thumb-tack, because he couldn’t think of a way out of this. _‘Nothing short of a time-machine will straighten this out now, Q,’_ he told himself ruefully, but smothered an insane giggle because Bond – who was still outside the door, if the smothering waves of tension were any indication – would hear it. It seemed so unfair that Q could be so smart in the daylight just to have his body do something crazy and out of his control while he was asleep, like cuddling up to another man…

 _‘Bond’s gonna kill me,’_ he told himself mutely and not entirely jokingly, pressing his hands upwards until his fingers were buried deep enough in his hair for him to feel the burn on his scalp. _‘I can’t even deny that I’m gay, seeing as I’m apparently a flaming idiot when I’m asleep!’_ The frustration was enough to make him gag, and he wanted to scream, but Bond was calling his name imperatively at the door again. So what Q said instead was, “I’ll be fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not fine. I can puke on my own, by the way.” He’d even managed to infuse some wry humor into that last sentence, some self-deprecating humor even when it was all a flagrant lie.

Considering Bond’s background and profession, he was probably debating the pros and cons of breaking the door down right now instead of just waiting for Q to eventually unlock it. However, Q’s false words were convincing enough, because the 00-agent finally replied with a voice heavily laden with uncertainty, “All right then. Just holler.”

Q wanted to reply, “I will,” but didn’t think he could talk without actually puking. Head thunking back against the wall, he wondered how his life could be so much more messed up so fast.

Even if he could have logically argued with Bond and told the 00-agent that this was all a misunderstanding…was it? With winter-chill clarity, Q remembered his thoughts of the day before: he’d thought that Bond was striking. Handsome. He’d felt heat go straight south when he’d heard the man laugh.

Q just slid over to the toilet in time to retch, self-hatred and fear creating a sick tangle of snakes in his guts. He was so confused and so conflicted that he didn’t know what to do anymore.

Crying was tempting, but with his head already hanging over the toilet and the acidic smell of his meager stomach contents sharp in his nostrils, crying hardly seemed to cover it anymore. A tear or two slid down his nose anyway, but since he couldn’t see past the end of his nose right now, he refused to believe they existed.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XC I'm evil. I truly am. But I felt it would be more realistic for Q to have to deal with the confliction of realizing that he's interested in men (or, one in particularly - Bond, who has shown every sign up until now of only liking women).  
> Don't worry - I'll fix this!! I mean, Bond likes Q, too, obviously, and he's not BLIND
> 
> Also: it was hard to write this part without making one of them seem like a bully/idiot. I tried to explain why each reacted as they did - how did I do?


	16. Complicated and Getting Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q continues to try and handle this new possibility of being attracted to the man taking care of him. When Bond goes out to check on a possible antidote, however, things get worse in a whole new way...
> 
> Enter one Raoul Silva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how all of the text is mashed together! I try to fix it, but no matter how many times I hit 'update' it just reverts to its previous formater XC I will keep trying!

~^~

 

To say that Bond was anxious and worried as an understatement. To say that he was one nerve away from breaking down the bathroom door was probably closer to the mark. Now that the fire of the argument was fading, Bond was able to step back and look at things objectively, and unfortunately that further led to categorizing his words as unnecessarily harsh. He wasn’t sure whether some of that harshness was justified, but he also was fairly certain that Q had only lashed out because of reflexes, too.

Basically, Bond was wishing for time travel, if only to go back and maybe redo that conversation with a little less bite and a little more tact…

First and foremost, however, was worry about Q’s health. Bond had never dealt so closely with a drug addict before, certainly not enough to be an expert on side-effects. Q said that vomiting was not unexpected, but Bond hated it nonetheless.

He called MI6. If they hadn’t created an antidote by now, they had bloody well speed up the process, because Bond was _not_ seeing Q like this again. Still replaying the look of stunned shock on Q’s face when Bond had revealed his recent nighttime habits, Bond held his cellphone to his ear and waited to be connected to the section of MI6 that he’d been working with up until now. When he was finally connected, the 00-agent cut right to business with the precision of a knife.

“The antidote.”

“We’ve…well, I’m sure you understand by now that it is a very complicated drug – difficult to synthesize on its own, much less find a way to counteract-”  
Bond ran over him verbally, voice still full of steel, “How close are you?”

The answer was more encouraging than he could have hoped for: “We think we have something. It’s not perfect, and so far, testing shows that the side-effects might be nearly as bad as the drug itself.”

“But it will end the addiction?” Bond asked, heart thudding. His head twitched as he heard faint movement in the bathroom; he was still listening with one ear to make sure that Q was okay. It sounded like he wasn’t, but then again, puking one’s guts out was never a fun time in Bond’s recollection. He hoped Q was listening; hearing that there was an end to this addiction had to be like hearing the bells of heaven without being dead. It might even make puking a bit better, although that was a stretch. Body tense now with excitement, Bond leaned against the wall just beside the locked bathroom door and listened to the chemist on the other line.

“It looks promising. I’d even say that it is certain, if you’re willing to go through a week of being sicker than a dog. Without getting someone addicted and testing it, however-”

“I’m going to pick up some right now,” Bond again interrupted.

If the man at the other end of the line had known whom he was talking to, he would have recognized the dangerous edge of honed focus in Bond’s tone. “I’m sorry, sir, but without-”

Well, the man didn’t know who Bond was. So now was probably a good time to change that to get things moving. Voice going from flat to as cold and hard as the muzzle of a gun against skin, Bond rapped out into the phone without hesitation, “This is James Bond, 007, and if you don’t believe me, I’ll be at your office in under half an hour to confirm. And if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll be at your office in under half an hour to discuss that as well.” Bond hung up. _‘Great. I have half an hour to bully one section of MI6 without an alert going out to the rest.’_ Virtually vibrating with excitement in a fashion that was unprecedented for him, Bond pounded on the door again.

Q had not been listening. His ears had felt as though mufflers had been put over them, trapping Q inside his own head with nothing but the thundering percussion of his own heartbeat. He was still leaning over the toilet, his body having curled around it like the cold, motionless porcelain was holding his insides in when they felt ripped out. The sound of Bond’s fist on the door once again roused him, and he curled his long, frail fingers reflexively into defensive fists as he startled. The world was still fuzzy as he looked towards the door, feeling his stomach sink with a trapped sort of feeling as he thought, _‘Ah._ Now _he’s going to break it in.’_

Instead, however, Q was gifted with the sound of Bond’s voice filled with a tone of energy that he couldn’t ever remember hearing before: “MI6 has made some headway. I’m going there now, to check in on the antidote for your drug.”

Wishing he had his glasses, if only to beetle his brows more coherently at the door, Q tried to deduce what to feel about that. Unwittingly, Bond had played down the facts, wanting both to surprise Q and not to get his hopes up prematurely – but, for Q, that simply meant he had a harder time figuring out what to make of it. For starters, this was very out of the blue, so Q began to have suspicions that grew steadily further from the truth. _‘He’s avoiding me.’_ “O-Okay,” he said out loud, hoping the rough shaking of his voice was either muffled by the door enough to pass for normal, or Bond simply thought that vomiting had understandably strained Q a bit. Still, even as he struggled to resign himself to being left alone, Q tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice – that would be expected, wouldn’t it? “That’s great. You-you’ll be back in a bit then?” _‘Great, Q. Sound desperate, too, why don’t you?’_ He hurried tried to make his interest sound more logical and less clingy, even as his brain tied itself in painful knots trying to decide which he actually was: logical or clingy. “With more information?”

“I plan to come back with answers for once, if not good news,” Bond relied warmly. Suddenly, despite all of his efforts to the contrary, Q noticed how much that voice pulled at him and drew him in – it was as if Bond’s words had torn down a wall, and Q now had nothing to protect himself against every wayward impulse in his head. He didn’t even _know_ if he was gay, but now, everywhere he looked, he found little whispers of attraction, little things connecting him to Bond. He didn’t want to, but he did. It was so frustrating that he wanted to just grip his head and scream. Truth, fiction, friendship, and desire were all twisting in his head like rampant vines adorned with thorns, swiftly confusing his head with a nest of nettles.

Bond’s voice came again, and this time Q flinched, not because it held any threat in it, but because he didn’t trust himself to listen to it objectively – did he really find the sounds of it soothing and lovely, or was that just the power of suggestion? “Will you be all right, Q?”

Q shuddered, suddenly stricken by the urge to laugh hysterically. Oh, he figured that he was far from all right, but it could admittedly hardly get worse if Bond left for a bit. “Yes. Yes, I will,” Q answered, his rising hysteria hidden, smiling a small, painful, wry smile as he rested his head on his arm. “Go on, Bond. I’m afraid I’ll be terribly bad company for some time anyway, so you’ll be better off taking a nice jaunt.”

On the other side of the door, Bond was uncertain. As much as he wanted to bully the antidote out of MI6 chemists this minutes, he didn’t like the tone of Q’s voice: the hacker sounded fragile – unsteady. Granted, Bond was listening through a door to a man who was sicker than a dog and riding out the effects of being drugged, but still… Bond growled a little low in his throat, wishing he could somehow be in two places at once. “I’ll be back in an hour, Q. Or I’ll call. Got it?” Unsettlingly, there was answer, and the blond agent felt his muscles bunch with the urge to break into the bathroom. “Got it, Q?” he pressed in a harder tone as he just restrained his worry.

Fortunately, the reply was a quick, “Yes, I’ve got it, Bond!” and the faint sounds of motion. Q didn’t unlock the door or emerge from the room, but at least he sounded alert and unharmed.

“Good. Well…well then. I guess I’ll just be on my way.” Bond shuffled back away from the door, still uncomfortable leaving the addict alone. To his surprise, he’d become used to the younger man’s company, from the jittery temperament to the sudden bursts of either genius or temper. He never knew what Q was going to do next, but somehow all of that unpredictability had lately molded into a sense of familiarity and comfort that just made Bond want to smile. Considering how rarely Bond truly smiled (the faint twitches of his mouth that left his eyes cold notwithstanding), this made Q precious to him in ways he couldn’t yet describe.

Already feeling the tug to stay put and keep an eye on Q, Bond turned and left the house. He’d barely gotten out of the door and locked it behind him when the phone rang, however. _‘Can’t be Q,’_ he reasoned, brows beetling as he tried to consider how fast Q would have to move to unlock the bathroom door and run to the phone for this call. It felt ridiculous, but Bond rather hoped that it was Q anyway. Instead, it was Silva, and Bond smirked ruefully and he continued walking to his car. “Bond,” he answered shortly. At that point, his mind grew alert and his tongue grew wary, because Silva was MI6, and MI6 still did not know that the infamous hacker was living in Bond’s apartment.

“Ahhh, James,” Silva returned in his usual oiled voice, sounding pleased, which Bond took to be normal, “I hadn’t heard from you in so long I had worried you died from the lack of activity.”

Thinking of how things had been anything but quiet and inactive, Bond answered in a smooth, controlled, slightly joking voice of his own, “No, just taking it easy. Disappointed?” He smirked, all the while walking quietly, giving Silva no clues as to where Bond was or what he was doing.

Why?

Because Bond and Silva weren’t the top of their class for nothing, and any 00-agent was listening and learning and deducing targets even when off the job. Silva hadn’t said anything threatening, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t trying to weasel additional information out of Bond as if he were a target.

“And if you died, whom would I have to play with? Games are hardly worth playing without someone of equal skill to add some challenge,” was the unhesitant reply. Bond was charming but Silva was glib.

But that didn’t mean that Bond lacked words when he wanted them: “Who said we were equal?” Silva couldn’t see him, but if he could, he would have been treated to a wide shark-like grin that made Bond’s eyes crinkle but sure didn’t make them warm up. Banter with Silva would have been more fun if Bond wasn’t constantly distracted by worry for Q.

Silva’s explosive laughter filled Bond’s ears, and Bond used that time to open the door and slip into his car. Immediately, Silva quieted and focused. “Going somewhere, James?” If the cat had eaten the canary, it couldn’t have sounded more smug as Silva.

There was no hiding the sound of a car-door opening and closing, and Bond hadn’t wanted to stall and wait until the other agent got off the line. Impatience had goaded Bond into revealing just a little to Silva, however inadvertently. Sighing at the games Silva played, Bond just got the car going, still talking easily and in a relaxed tone on the hone. “As a matter of fact, yes. It seems that Medical likes to keep track of injured agents, so I’m heading in. It doesn’t exactly make my day, but-” Bond assayed another toothy grin, more roguish this time and more troublesome. “-But I don’t have a record for making their day either, so I suppose it’s all fair.”

“Hm,” was Silva’s unreadable reply, probably accompanied by a smile, “Such a troublemaker, James. I’ll leave you to it, though. Medical has bothered me enough that I see no reason to protect them from you.” Bond pulled into traffic, seeing no reason to respond, and Silva obediently finished a moment later in his crooning voice, “Have a good day, James.”

“Consider it had,” Bond grunted gamely back, and turned off the phone with a click before slipping it into his coat-pocket.

 

~^~

 

On the other end, Silva hung up, too, looking at his phone speculatively and with an unreadable glint in his eye. He’d actually taken a little visit to Medical himself – thoroughly antagonizing them all in the process, of course – finding that one James Bond was actually healing very nicely, nicely enough that he should have been itching to get back into the field. A few others had noticed that Bond was taking his downtime rather better than usual, but most of them were either relieved at the change or simply baffled by it.

Silva was neither. He knew a puzzle when he saw one, and Silva was _never_ baffled – merely presented with a challenge. If Bond was heading down to MI6, or at least going somewhere in his car, then that meant he was out of his apartment.

“I think it’s time for a little visit,” Silva decided without any compunction whatsoever. He hadn’t been put on a mission in a while, and that had left his brain idle – and that just wouldn’t do…especially when Silva had a few suspicions about what was causing Bond’s unique behavior.

 

~^~

 

Q had finally left the solitude of the bathroom, trading it now for the solitude of the living room couch where he now curled in silence. He’d retrieved his glasses, after an embarrassing five minutes of feeling around like a blind man, which was a rather literal analogy in this case. Somehow, even spectacles placed on a bedstand were hard to find when the person looking was distraught, shaky, and had honestly only stopped crying a few seconds ago. After that, he’d actually gotten dressed, seeking focus in a mundane task and failing miserably at that, too.

Maybe it was a sign of his new internal disquiet that he hadn’t immediately and stubbornly gone for that sweater Bond found so amusingly ugly, but instead found his original clothes – now washed – and pulled them on. The clothing was still ill-fitting, but at least they constituted a sort of neutral ground, smelling of nothing but the detergent they were washed in. In his mismatched cardigan, button-down, and slacks (the first being threadbare, the second missing at least one button, and the last ones ill-fitting), Q was now sitting on the couch trying to cope.

“What now, Q?” he asked himself, rubbing at his forehead, for once irritated by the unruly mop of his hair as it tangled with his fingers. He grimaced. “What good is this big brain of yours doing you?” It was like all of the rules of physics had somehow broken in Q’s brain, setting the world askew for him – all because of a couple words from Bond.

 _‘Do I like him?’_ Q couldn’t even ask that question out loud. Ignoring his glasses, he pushed his fingertips against his eyes, further shoving his spectacles up towards his eyebrows but not caring as he took in and let out a shaky breath close to panic. His body shook, and he wished more than ever that he’d never even met Bond. That revelation choked another near-manic little laugh out of him, because the hacker had never envisioned himself thinking that. Bond had saved his life, after all, hadn’t he? Not to mention gone above and beyond mere rescue to put with him afterwards.

This was all just too confusing. Now Q couldn’t even think straight, and his brain had always been his greatest weapon – often his only one. The fact that he was feverish didn’t help, even though the cold was actually fading a bit. Still, in a flash of frustrated, cornered energy, Q suddenly wanted nothing more than to punch Bond in the nose.

That thought brought up others, thoughts that Q had perhaps had before but had never paid much mind to until Bond had brought it all to his attention: the last time they’d fought, the feeling of Bond’s hands, strong and cool compared to Q’s frailness and fever-heat, the flex of the agent’s muscle like bands of iron, an expression of strength that embodied a level of safety and protection that Q desperately valued.

And then, vaguely, from some murky box in the back of his mind, Q remembered standing in a darkened room, cleaving to Bond’s steady, huge form, the muscles so strong and perfect beneath his hands that he didn’t want to leave, so perfect that he took a step forward when Bond stepped back, instead of just leaving after the nightmare faded.

“No…!” Q choked, sobbing now like some trapped thing. He tried to shred the emotions and push them away, but they were too thick and wrapped him like a shroud that just kept tangling him up more. _Why?_ Why had Bond made him think these things…?

_‘You were thinking them before. Otherwise, why did you keep turning up on the couch to sleep with him?’_

Q flinched, beginning to seriously wonder if he was hearing voices. Then again, whenever Q had been recovering from his drugs in the past, he’d hovered somewhere on the edge of crazy, and with the addition of illness and stress now, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. Growling to himself and realizing that he wasn’t going to get this sorted out anytime soon, Q collapsed back onto the couch, reaching for a tissue and then just letting his hand drop tiredly off the side of the couch. He’d stopped sniffling a bit ago, and his sinuses were actually feeling clear now – a small mercy in whatever torment he’d found himself in.

Being a cerebral personality first and foremost, Q tried to grasp at the reins of his mind and think through things a little bit more logically. A few deep breaths and nervous swallows later, and he managed, tremulously asking himself, _‘Do I_ really _like Bond?’_ He asked the question the same way that a person would extend a hand towards a dog of questionable friendliness. In the past, Q had pondered sexuality and relationships very little, and therefore didn’t even know what to look for in himself. Did he like Bond because of his athletic body and rugged face, his bone-warming laugh and that little smile that nestled in the corner of his mischievous mouth and turned his eyes from ice to blue electricity, or because Q had never had anyone befriend him before and was just horrendously messing it up?

Upon hearing something at the door, Q tensed but couldn’t quite bring himself to the levels of self-conscious terror that he had before – he was simply too rung out. If Bond had left the house to get some space from Q, then he was probably coming back now to either tell him off or ignore him more, or something like that. Honestly, the day was a disaster, and Q couldn’t imagine it getting worse.

Maybe, had Q not been so muddled and emotional, he might have realized that the sounds at the door were taking too long to be Bond. Q hadn’t completely explained every security addition he’d added to Bond’s house, but he’d made sure that Bond could get in. Now, if the man ever got himself locked out, _then_ he’d be in trouble, but that was a bridge Q would address when it was reached. Or maybe Q would just burn it when he got to it. That seemed to be his _modus operandi_ at the moment.

However, when no Bond had entered the house five minutes later, Q’s brain – which had finally sunk into a sort of fitful half-doze, drugs, fatigue, and emotional stress taking its toll – started setting off warning bells. Becoming more and more alert with every fraction of a second, Q sat up and straightened his glasses on his nose. At the moment that he slowly levered himself to his feet, there was a sudden electrical surge that sounded like electricity snapping and crackling its way through a hundred fuses. Two bulbs in the entranceway blew, and Q started, realizing in an instant that he’d never considered simply overloading the main security system at the door.

Heart hammering uncertainly in his chest, Q backed up a few steps, eyes glued to the door. Realizing that someone was coming in who was decidedly not Bond but obviously skilled, equipped, and dangerous enough to run roughshod over Q’s security system, Q dove for the television. His hands quickly found his battered little phone behind it, and un-spliced it from the wires with quick, deft movements of his hands before slipping it into his pocket. Then he retreated because the door was opening, and someone even larger than Bond was striding confidently in.

Q’s breathing had picked up, and he knew that if he’d had a weapon and knew how to use it, he would have. Even the memory of pulling the trigger at Bond didn’t dissuade him, as Q knew that, weaponless, he was outmatched in nearly every physical fight he got into. What kept him from panic was the knowledge that not all of his security updates were centralized at the front door…

At the sight of the intruder’s face, however, Q nearly panicked anyway. ‘ _Raoul Silva_ ,’ his brain instantly identified, both from files and from nightmares, eyes widening hugely as he took in the pale, floppy hair and the cunning, canted eyes – and mostly the broad, dangerously smiling mouth with all of its shark-like glee. This was the man that he’d fought over cyberspace, and he’d been able to feel the ruthlessness right through the keys like a burn up his fingertips.

“Well, well, well,” the man hummed in amusement that bordered on glee, striding closer and following Q’s nervous, cornered movements with eyes like curious lasers.

That was when one of Q’s additions to Bond’s security turned on with a faint blip of warning, and the lights all went out.

In theory, this meant that anyone familiar with the house had the advantage, as a stranger stumbled around in the dark. However, there were thin slices of light coming through the drapes, and Q feared that Silva was more than just a common burglar. The second he’d heard the quiet warning beep, Q had spun on his heel, no hesitation in his steps as he fled towards the bedroom window.

Silva was right on him. There were very, very few people who could have gotten around the security that Q had wired into the door, and Silva topped that short list. Beyond that, he also had layers of physical skill that Q couldn’t begin to match, and when the strong arm hooked around his stomach, Q yelped and felt himself dragged backwards without the slightest evidence of effort. Fast while not strong, Q planted his feet just enough to spin, wildly jerking an elbow back to connect it with Silva’s body. He’d aimed for the man’s throat or jaw, but wasn’t used to calculating in height on the run, and jabbed his elbow hard into Silva’s chest instead.

The reaction was instantaneous and brutal. Silva made a sound that mixed a laugh and a growl, and switched his grip to crush Q’s offending arm just above the elbow while using the other to spin him around. Q snarled like a wildcat and kicked, and his free arm snapped out to Silva’s face. Q had always known that he was bad at punching: that was why (first with Bond and now again with this attacker) he held his fingers out like claws. Silva’s head snapped to the side as they dragged sharply down the side of his face. A second later, Q’s whole body snapped back as he was slammed into the wall next to the bedroom doorway.

“Q, may I presume?” Silva asked pleasantly as he applied pressure with an arm across the smaller man’s throat. The faint, feral edge to Silva’s voice was the only indication that he was bothered by the angry red lines – at least one seeping blood – on his face. Another sign of his anger was the totally unnecessary pressure he added to both the grip he maintained on Q’s arm and the weight upon Q’s throat. Q choked, blinking and squeezing his eyes shut in panic as his attempts to get free earned him nothing.

Silva, eyes narrowing as he dispassionately looked over the suffocating Q, shifted again. The positive side was that Q suddenly was able to breathe – the downside was that, a second later, Silva’s large hand was clenched around his jaw so hard that he felt sure that it would break. Otherwise, Silva used nothing but proximity and size to keep his catch, freeing up a hand to touch the cuts on the side of his face. Rubbing the smear of blood now on his fingertips, Silva seemed not to notice or care about the labored sound of Q catching his breath frantically. “Bond’s been keeping quite a pet,” he commented in amusement, voice still maddeningly playful.

Q froze a moment, a new kind of panic spinning through him. Bond…Bond was this man’s coworker, and no one knew that Bond had been assisting a wanted computer hacker. Q couldn’t let Bond take the fall for this, so he began distracting Silva desperately. _‘What to say…what to say…?!’_ “You never could get around all of my hacks, could you?” he stuttered out.

As obviously as if he’d been prodded with a sharp stick, Silva stilled and the smile froze. The way his eyes locked on Q’s was horrifying and unsettling, and Q wished the man wasn’t so huge, so close, and wearing sleeves too long and too thick to scratch through. Still, he was very sure that he’d refocused the larger agent’s attention: the hand clenched around his jaw tightened until Q cried out. He struggled, thrashing instinctively, but Silva just pressed closer until he was physically pinning Q to the wall. Suddenly Bond’s words – that Q was homosexual – struck his brain like a burning spark, and this time when he cried out it was a whimper, his nerves aware of every inch of the man leaning on him. Silva wasn’t doing anything, but it still hurt Q because he was thinking too much, yet again. Sometimes he hated the speeds at which his brain worked.

Sometimes he wished he was just some mediocre nobody who never did and never would draw attention.

“I got around your hacks, young Q, but I believe what really matters is that I’ve found you, hmm?” Silva finally replied, still with that edge of violence on his tone that showed his anger was barely leashed. “How about this? You come quietly, and I don’t break both of your legs?” he asked pleasantly.

Q felt his blood run cold, and he swallowed, unable to speak with Silva gripping his face so hard. Obligingly, Silva noticed and shifted his grip: he dropped his hand, actually releasing Q, his hand moving to consider Q’s worn shirt-collar. When, after a split-second of surprise, Q reacted and attempted to hit him again, Silva used his other hand to grab Q’s wrist and crush it to the wall. “How about this? Let’s see if maybe I understand you a bit, my bespectacled little friend.” Silva crooned, face twisting in a snarl or a smile as he continued to study Q ruthlessly, “You obviously feel some attachment to Bond – understandable, as he has obviously been keeping you.” At Q’s helplessly wide eyes, Silva’s smile turned broader, threatening to split his face in half. “For my part, I am Bond’s friend as well, and would never want to see any harm come to him. Plus, I respect that he is a dangerous man.” Q couldn’t think of anything else to do but listen, especially since he somehow doubted that Silva was much of a friend to anybody and because he figured that both Bond and Silva were equally dangerous to him.

“What do you want?” he panted in a small voice, afraid that the bones of his wrist were slowly compacting.

“I want credit for bringing in the infamous Q.”

Silva went from considering Q’s shirt-collar to gripping it suddenly in both hands, twisting expertly so that, suddenly, the hacker had no air at all. With his windpipe blocked, he opened his mouth and gulped uselessly for air, clawing madly at Silva to try and get him off…try and get…get him off… _stop_ …!

Q slumped to the floor and Silva squatted down next to him a moment later. He reached out a hand, brushing back locks of tousled hair on the hacker’s neck before pressing fingers to his pulse, finding it, and smiling his oiled smile. “Can’t have you dead before your trial, now can we?” And he reached down to pick Q up.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye out for my new work! I'm starting up another 00Q fic, and for those of you who have been yearning for a totally kick-butt Q - I've got one coming before next week is out ;) 
> 
> Sorry that I didn't update Friday, like usual - Finals just got over, and I am home (meaning I have television, which slows down my typing, lol)


	17. A Meeting of Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva has brought the infamous Q back to MI6.  
> There are only so many things that can happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly sad chapter, depending how you look at it - also empowering, because Q gets to throw his technological weight around ;)
> 
> And there are probably about a million mistakes referring to computers...please ignore them! Until the day that I get a degree in computers, I shall simply continue to make things up for the sake of the story :)
> 
> Enjoy!

~^~

 

The lights in Q’s brain flickered back on like uncooperative light bulbs in an old basement, leaving him fighting for coherence even though he technically knew he was awake. Nearly sobbing with the effort of getting his senses coordinated with a brain that had been knocked from genius down to the level of a beaten dog, Q slowly deduced that he was on the floor somewhere in a car, between the front and back seats if the claustrophobic lack of room was any indication. 

Then, with a start, Q realized that all he could see was the fabric on the inside of a dark-green pillowcase. 

“Ahhh, awake, are you?”

The sound of Silva’s rolling voice made Q startle fabulously, knees, back, and head all hitting something as he flinched. He still couldn’t see anything, and in a split second he realized that his hands were tied behind his back as well, further limiting his range of motion. 

Silva didn’t laugh at him, but he continued to talk as if this were no big deal, tsking slightly as Q twitched his head in an attempt to clear his vision. “Now now now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Q. MI6 has been moving around some of its facilities a bit, so I hope you forgive me for making sure that a brain like yours doesn’t get any more visual input than necessary.”

Belatedly, Q put it all together, realizing that Silva had grabbed a pillowcase to improvise a hood, and he felt himself quake down to the pit of his stomach. He only tried the restraints around his wrist for a moment before giving up. He rather doubted that Silva really cared about secrecy (Q already knew where every branch and facet of MI6 was), but instead just liked the idea of making the young hacker as uncomfortable as possible. The undercurrent in Silva’s voice was that of triumphant amusement and an edge of sadism that Q recognized all too quickly. 

Silva simply continued driving, totally unconcerned with the prisoner in his back seat despite the fact that it sounded like they were driving through heavy traffic. Q thought he was going to be sick, and weakly tried to scrape the hood from his head, but to no avail. It didn’t help that he was still a bit sick, so he couldn’t be sure that his shakiness and the heat crackling beneath his skin was terror or illness. 

MI6. He was being taken to MI6. Panic like he’d never known overtook him, until he was sure that the sound of his shaking sure had been evident from the front seat, although Silva didn’t seem to notice. He wouldn’t have cared if he did, likely. Suddenly the cloth over Q’s head felt like it was suffocating him, and only one realization kept him from hyperventilating. _‘My phone. My phone – I put it in my pocket…’_

Q froze, realizing that the phone was still there. 

With his hands tied behind his back, Q couldn’t move much, but it was actually child’s-play to twist his hips and stretch his restrained arms until his fingertips touched his pocket – the phone hadn’t fallen out or been removed. If Silva had seen it, he’d obviously taken one look at the lobotomized little cell and decided that it was about as much threat as Q was at the moment. 

Deftly, Q slipped the little cellphone out of his pocket and into the safe cage of his fingers, cupping it in his hand like a precious baby bird and hiding it again behind his back. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious or how long it would be until Bond returned to his house to (hopefully) realize that his house had been broken into and Q kidnapped. Q had meant to get a hold of Bond’s phone and program it to receive a message of some sort if the security in the house was tripped, but – like the iPod – he hadn’t quite gotten that job done. However, there was only one number that Q ever called on his stolen phone, so it would only take muscle memory to call Bond. 

Silva would notice that, though. Silva obviously didn’t fear Q in any way – and clearly had little reason to, considering Silva’s training and Q’s lack – but he had been trained like Bond, meaning he’d take notice if Q started calling people. So Q worked slowly, finding the button that would turn on the phone. From his time in the hands of Caesar and his gang, Q had gotten pretty good at hiding it, and had long ago made sure that the phone was soundless. He’d often used it in the dark, only the faint glow of the screen (dimmed to save battery) and the memory of his fingers to guide him when Caesar left him in some dark hole of a room without light. Sometimes, he’d called Bond, and somehow that would push the dark away for a bit. 

Thinking back to his reactions to those desperate, uncertain, hesitant calls, Q wondered if he’d been crushing on the MI6 agent even then. Just at the thought, his stomach knotted up in confusion and humiliation, and Q tucked his head down to bury it against the material of his hood.

This time, Q doubted that even Bond could help him out. But he wanted to at least give him warning…just because. Q had gotten used to calling him in times of trouble, and he decided that that was just a weakness he couldn’t get rid of now. Maybe he’d try harder later.

Maybe if Bond never came for him, it would be easier to just give the man up. 

 

~^~

 

Silva drove Q right into MI6, the sounds of a crowded city giving way to the silence of underground parking where no one would question a hooded, restrained prisoner being dragged out of the back of a car. Especially if it was Silva’s car, because the man radiated danger like a sun. 

This whole time, Q had been working carefully, straining to use his hearing to good use: whenever traffic had gotten loud, or Silva had started chatting (which had been often and terrifying, even if Q never said anything back), Q had carefully pushed buttons on his phone. It was easy for a brainiac like Q to hold a perfect map of the phone in his head, and only a tiny bit harder to translate that to his fingers behind his back. While he couldn’t in any way check to see if he was doing things right, Q was doing his best, and if Silva didn’t catch him and if Q wasn’t pushing all of the wrong buttons, Bond would get a rather surprising message…

The car stopped, and Q’s whole world seemed to freeze. The pale agent got out and Q could barely remember how to think as he tried to brace himself for whatever was coming next. He was scared out of his mind. “Don’t _worry_ so much, Q,” Silva chastised as he opened the back door at Q’s feet, and the slender young man twitched violently, unable to keep from cowering. Silva’s voice did nothing to calm him, because it still sounded like the musical, sibilant tones of some sort of bipedal snake. The big, pale agent reached in right then and grabbed Q by the ankles to drag him out, chuckling at the hacker’s squeak of alarm but catching him by the upper arm before he was dumped right out onto his head. Q very nearly dropped his little phone, fumbling it in his startled fingers before clenching his fists around it and hiding the contraband out of sight. Handling the slim hacker as easily as he would a sack of grain, Silva pulled him out and set Q mostly upright, never noticing even as Q hit one last button and let go of the phone. It dropped, unseen, back into the car where it slid beneath the back seat. 

Q yelped again and squirmed as he felt Silva’s arm loop securely and with lazy power around behind his back – a parody of camaraderie. Silva’s big hand locked around Q’s far arm at the elbow, keeping the younger man from falling on his face when the agent stepped forward without warning. It was obviously a coordinated effort to unsettle the trapped addict. Q honestly wasn’t coordinated on the best of days, and right now he was tied, hooded, and riding out the tail end of drugs and probably more than just the tail end of a serious cold. He’d been recovering, but could now feel panic and fear and stress tearing his immune system to shreds. “Everyone has been ssoo interested in seeing you, my little hacker,” Silva started talking conversationally, right next to Q’s ear through the hood, and Q didn’t think he’d ever be able to stand music again thanks to the singsong quality of that voice. He flinched and tried to hunch his shoulders (with the hopes of burying his head between them) as Silva simply continued walking confidently. “Let’s go meet everyone, shall we? M will be so pleased to meet you – and, not coincidentally, so pleased in me for bringing you around to chat.”

 

~^~

 

M had instantly thought it ridiculous to have a hood on Q’s head, and that was how the hacker got his first look at the infamous M outside of personnel files. He blinked rapidly at the sudden light, aware that his glasses were crooked but at least he still had them. Still breathing too fast, he tried to collect his thoughts – fortunately, he was genius enough to be able to deduce where this conversation was going. 

M’s eyes were so much sharper than they looked like in pictures, and they pierced Q right through, even though the other vibes she was giving off said she was flustered – Silva, standing next to her, must have caught her off-guard with all of this. Then again, it probably wasn’t every day that that a 00-agent dragged in the man who had turned the lights out in MI6. “Agent Silva says that you were found in Bond’s apartment. What the devil were you doing there?” she snapped, getting right to the point. 

Realizing that his shivering probably made him look even more pathetic and harmless than he was, and that people were more likely to underestimate him if he looked irredeemably pathetic and harmless, Q hunched a little lower in the chair he’d been shoved into. When he answered, however, he spoke without hesitation or signs of subterfuge, voice steady, “I saw that Bond had left the house, so I broke in.”

“You seem to know his name,” M caught, and left the accusation hanging.

Q cursed himself, wishing he had more practice at this, but managed to screw up his courage and say back with only the faintest wobble in his voice, “You just said it. I just knew that he was the same guy that had tried to shoot me before.”

For a moment, it looked like Silva would laugh and that M would slap him. Both, surprisingly, were terrifying thoughts, mainly because Q was hardwired by this point to fear anything that Silva did. Q’s eyes were locked on Silva’s acidic gaze like a mythical rabbit hypnotized by a snake, and he barely registered M observing scathingly, “Bloody cheek. It’s a wonder Bond didn’t just shoot you when he first met you-”

 _‘I still wonder the same thing,’_ Q mutely agreed.

“Consider James’s track record with being flippant, though, Ma'am,” Silva came in with totally unwanted support, and since M’s back was to the big agent, he probably missed how close she came to rolling her eyes at him. Still, the head of MI6 was not easily coerced into rolling her eyes. Still, Silva wasn’t done yet, and he watched Q as he continued to play, “Maybe our James would actually appreciate cheek like our hacker here possesses.”

For the sake of some sick game, Silva hadn’t actually given away that Q had been at Bond’s house much longer than Q said – perhaps because he didn’t have proof of it, but Q doubted it. He’d crossed coding with this man enough to know that Silva was very nearly the genius he was, albeit with a slightly different set of skills to call upon. Deadlier skills. He moved like Bond. Q never wanted to be pinned to a wall again. Now, with Silva hinted at Q’s lengthy attachment to Bond, a spike of pure terror shot up Q’s back. He was talking almost before he’d realized it, throwing out lies to draw the attention back to himself, “I broke into Bond’s house because I figured he’d have access to MI6 systems.” He floundered a moment, but picked up his story quickly as he tore his gaze away from Silva’s poisonous one – instead, he put on his best beseeching look and turned it on M. “I wanted to…to undo what I’d done.”

M was incredibly wary now, although the look on Q’s face didn’t move her any more than it would have moved a mountain. “And what have you done?” she said in the low, quiet voice of a storm coming in. Her eyes smoldered with the burn of dry ice. 

Already knee-deep in lies – lies that only had to hold up a little longer, a little longer for Q to set his plan in motion and set himself free – Q answered, “Silva never remotely got all of the bugs I put into the system. When I first hacked in, what you chased were red herrings.”

Suddenly Silva was moving. M was no field agent, and Silva was a force of nature; she couldn’t stop him, or even be prepared, as he suddenly surged past her. Q didn’t have any warning besides that blur of motion before there was pain exploding across his cheekbone. “Agent Silva!” M barked, but the pale man had already stepped back. Eyes watering and half of his face feeling as though it were made of ground glass, Q saw that the man was breathing a little bit harder, but his face was still eerily calm – like a mask to hide the bruised pride beneath. _‘Maybe I overdid that,’_ Q admitted to himself, but he had no way of knowing that Silva had quite an open wound where Q was concerned – word was getting around that Silva would never be Quartermaster because he’d been out-hacked by a drug-addicted light-weight who looked like a malnourished college student. Bond himself had carefully avoided the conversation, Silva had noted, but Bond was probably the only person who could have said such things with impunity. 

“Mr. Silva, you can either leave this room right now or step back and make it clear that you are capable of conducting yourself like the 00-agent you are,” M rapped out, her words like sharp shards of glass or claws made to dig one by one into Silva’s flesh. She’d recovered from her original shock at the muscular man’s movement and violence, and now the sting of her voice made Silva flinch. He backed off without a word. 

“What is your name, young man?” M returned to questioning without a hint of reprieve, as if her eyes couldn’t see the bruise and swelling that had to be starting all over the right side of Q’s face. She couldn’t afford to be soft…especially with Silva acting like a shark in the water. Sometimes, he was less under anyone’s control than anyone wanted to admit. 

This, however, was the question Q had been waiting for, so he forced his broken-glass face to move – shifting muscles felt like cracks spreading, opening his jaw felt like acid in the cracks zipping all the way back to his neck and up to his eyes – so he could answer as timidly as possible, “Quintus Julkarn.”

The room went quiet and M and Silva – along with the few others no doubt behind the glass wall across the room – blinked, surprised. Q did his best to look defeated, which wasn’t hard with his whole head throbbing from Silva’s blow. He was feeling nauseous, and just hoped he wasn’t about to puke because of all the panic and fear, because it didn’t feel like that would be in any way comfortable. 

Then he realized that something spectacularly like puking – or fainting – would bring a quick end to this questioning, so he gave in to his lightheadedness and the way his bones felt like jelly. Knowing full-well that he couldn’t catch himself or break his own fall, Q fell out of his chair. He curled his head in just enough to save himself from a concussion, but still experienced a whole new world of pain as his cheek and jaw were jarred. He choked on a cry and might have blacked out…because the next thing he heard was the sound of M’s voice, as if from a distance, “…Get to work on that. Look up his name. We’ll find out as much as we can about him while he recovers. Hopefully we can question him more fully later.” It sounded like she was directing a razor-sharp glance towards Silva, making it clear that the shortening of this interrogation was going to be blamed heavily on him. 

The best thing that Q had ever heard in his life, however, was when M added, “And you are _not_ going to accompany him to his holding cell.”

It nearly moved Q to tears as hands – hands other than Silva’s hands – pulled Q up off the floor that he’d hopefully pull off his escape without ever seeing Silva. And then, hopefully he’d never see Silva _again._

And if he never saw Bond again either…

The emotion that tangled itself around Q’s heart was painful yet different, and he decided not to even try to unravel that puzzle. Sometimes puzzles were made of little wooden blocks – sometimes, they were made of tangled vines and studded with thorns, and no promise of a rose underneath. 

 

~^~

 

Quintus Julkarn was not Q’s name. It was Safeguard. 

Safeguard was Q’s way of saying _‘I’m not going to be a prisoner again. I will escape any way I can. I will do anything I can to ensure that I am safe.’_

Before Q had finally relaxed enough to feel safe in Bond’s house, he’d thought of nothing but this: the final moment when MI6 would catch him. In his frenzy of fear, Q had broken into MI6’s servers to set up a trap of sorts – a trap that let out only him. 

The bait was his name. 

Quintus Julkarn. 

Q was being walked down a hallway when his name was finally researched. He knew what it would be like: his name would be typed into a search, an understandably rare name – Q had picked it to be rare, so it wouldn’t be searched prematurely. So the trap would not be set off prematurely. Now, the second that someone clicked the key that initiated the search on ‘Quintus Julkarn’, the screen would flicker slightly, and code would be awakening like a serpent in spring beneath it all. If Silva were watching, he would likely realize something was wrong, but Q had made Safeguard airtight, creating a dragon with so many scales that no even Silva’s violence could destroy it.

And then Q had taken one scale out, as a last-minute decision. 

The lights flickered – just a faint flicker, more of a warning for Q than anything else. It made Q’s escorts turn their heads, but nothing more. For his part, Q braced himself, counting back in his head: _‘…Five, four, three, two, one.’_

And suddenly Q’s first encounter with MI6 happened again, and MI6 went black. 

 

~^~

 

Bond’s phone had vibrated in his pocket, but he’d been busy arguing with a chemist and wondering if he’d have to shoot him. Upon realizing that his solicitor was 007, the people working on Q’s cure had grown much more compliant, but they were still leery of giving something so powerful to James Bond without orders or explanation. Ergo, Bond was now facing off to a man half his size and trying not to let his hand stray to the gun at his hip. 

Eventually, the man gave in, shortly thereafter giving Bond what he wanted. Relief like a wave crashed through Bond’s system, and it was almost without thinking that he belatedly lifted his phone to check it.

Abruptly, his good mood shattered. 

 

_Silva._

_House._

_MI6._

 

Bond said nothing but everyone around him sensed the change from relaxed (if slightly annoyed) off-duty James Bond to 007 with a license to kill and suddenly the great urge to do so. But Bond had barely taken two steps when suddenly the whole place was thrown into darkness. Now Bond swore, knowing without a flicker of doubt what was going on, or at least who was behind it all. 

 

~^~

 

Q had thrown himself back, taking advantage of the darkness and the fact that everyone else was shocked but him. His swift motion broke the hold of his escorts, and from there, Q depended on his mental map in the same way that he’d done with his phone. Still clumsy but at least knowing where he was going, Q fled in the dark. A few back-up lights were flickering weakly on, but Safeguard had knocked out practically everything, creating a world of darkness where the playing field was more equal.

Or, at least, more equal until Q found what he was looking for in the darkness: an unguarded computer. He actually heard its owner cry out in alarm before running out into the hall, seeking light and seeking answers and not seeing Q at all. The runaway hacker darted in.

Q had dodged his keepers for now, and it was dark enough that he had a bit of time – but not much. Suddenly, the ties on his hands were the most annoying things in the world. Unable to think of anything else that might work, Q inelegantly tried to drag his hands downward so that he could get them under his legs and in front of him. This, of course, quickly led to him falling down and painfully hitting the floor; when Q had his breath back and had gotten his whimper of pain under control, he found that getting untangled was easier this way anyway. Somehow, he got his hands past his feet (still bare, he realized), and with his zip-tied wrists in front of him he returned to the computer. No one had found him yet…and no one had gotten past the preliminary stages of Safeguard. 

The computer looked unresponsive, like everything else. Q knew differently – this was Stage 1 of Safeguard. It was thin and flimsy, but it allowed Q with a way in. Quickly, he typed his real name into the seemingly-lifeless computer, and immediately a single screen whirred to life. 

Voice recognition program. That was Stage 2. If anyone else magically typed in the real name for Q, they could get this far, but no further.  
“Fear is the key to wisdom,” Q said into the speaker usually there for intercom use, if at all. “It unleashes it or it locks it in.”

Suddenly the computer screen changed – _Welcome, Q_ scrolled across the screen – and then the whole thing booted up. Immediately Q’s fingers were flying, barely hindered by being tied so close together, and before anyone could find him, Q had locked down all of MI6. Computers that had answered to hundreds of people suddenly owed loyalty only to him.

 

~^~

 

People were panicking, and Bond wondered what it would take to get everyone to just be quiet and calm down. Granted, the place was like a midnight sky – only a few weak emergency lights showing signs of life like stars at night – but Bond wished that he’d maybe been locked in a section of MI6 with a few more agents. Then again, he knew plenty of 00-agents who would doubtless be in quite a tizzy over all of this, too.

Having been through one of Q’s blackouts before, Bond found it pretty easy to sublimate his shock in favor of a slow-burning frustration. Maybe there was fear beneath that, but it was for Q, not for himself. 

Three words. Just one tiny text message that could be read in a multitude of ways, but still Bond felt ice creeping through him. In the end, the answer was too easy: Q would not text Bond, Q would not take out his battered phone _at all,_ and Q would not text Silva’s name unless their worst fear had become real. MI6 – specifically, Agent Silva – had caught the bespectacled hacker. 

Even if Bond had doubted that, the situation now proved it. There was no other conceivable reason that all of the power had gone out again in MI6. 

Bond leaned against the door, where the keypad had already proven immune to attempts to get it to unlock. The only light that was on happened to be the intercom light, for no reason in particular. “Q, you crazy little monster,” Bond growled, although there was a telling amount of fond humor in his tone. Somehow, this all felt like a bit of a victory, despite the fact that 007 was locked in a dark room with a bunch of panicking people.

Through the intercom, Bond’s voice traveled, eventually reaching the voice-recognition program that Q had set up on the other side of the building. 

 

~^~

 

Originally, this had not been part of the plan. All Q wanted was safety and escape, a Safeguard in case he was captured and needed to get out. Bond’s constant presence, however, and the shocking amount of care he showed towards Q, had augmented the plan. The new plan had included keeping the voice-recognition running, connected to the intercoms until one specific voice was recognized. 

Q had been engineering his way out of MI6 custody when a window opened, a quick sign to indicate that Bond’s voice had been heard, and where. It had taken ages to force the computers to do this, but Q had been desperate – and desperation combined with genius was a dangerous thing. Immediately, Q looked up from his work, heart catching…he’d almost forgotten that he’d told Safeguard to ‘listen’ for James Bond. With a moment of hesitation that didn’t last long, Q began working on something else. 

Lacking a phone, Q connected to Bond’s phone via the computer, which was far easier than typing texts blind behind his back. MI6 regularly talked to agents from computers to their phones, to it was literally a walk in the park. 

Then Q went back to engineering his escape before someone shot through the doors he’d locked shut. 

 

~^~

 

Bond’s phone vibrated, startling him. This time he picked it up immediately, narrowing his eyes against the pale light as he screen lit up. The number said it was from an MI6 server, but the words indicated otherwise.

 _Welcome, 007. Access granted to code ‘James Bond’. Find computer._

Bewildered and more than a little shocked, Bond pushed through the various people in the room, shoving a thin man out of a chair to get to a computer. It wouldn’t turn on, obviously, so Bond clenched his jaw in irritation. He looked at the text again, and – feeling slightly ridiculous – typed in his name for the unresponsive computer to read. 

Immediately, a window opened for a voice-recognition program, but nothing else. “Q, if this is some kind of game-!” Bond ground out, feeling his fingers close into frustrated fists even as he ignored the owlish faces peering over his shoulders. 

And, as easy as that, the computer unlocked and turned completely on, leaving a room full of shocked people – not the least of whom was Bond himself. 

_‘Because I am fair’_ flashed briefly on the screen before disappearing, leaving Bond with a computer and his thoughts, the latter being suddenly tangled and sharp. 

 

~^~

 

Q hacked and coded his way steadily forward. Soon, though one computer, he had access to everything. Also, when he found a pair of scissors in the desk drawer, he had two free hands to work with. The tie had cut painfully into his wrists, and Q bit his lip and tried not to look at the raw skin, instead focusing on making a safe route for escape. 

He would have to set it up like a cascade, or go through the process of unlocking computers as he went. Q didn’t want to simply create typed codes – Silva was too likely to figure them out. The man was fast and dangerous that way, so the only thing that Q trusted was voice-recognition. It would also slow even Bond down if the man decided that it was his duty to Queen and Country to catch Q – Bond had as much access as Q now, but without the vast technological knowledge to back it up. Anyone who _did_ have that knowledge (such as, namely, Silva) would have to have Bond present at every computer they came to for 007 to speak and verbally unlock the system. Still, if Bond were in trouble in any way, he could deal with it now. Q hoped. It was a small and crummy gift to give, but he figured he owed Bond at least that much. 

Doors to unlock. Doors to lock. Lighting to do the same with. Distractions, as needed. All of this Q created with deft hands flying over keys, dozens of windows on the computer screen reflecting off his glasses and making him look like some sort of computer himself.

And then he was gone. MI6 was his, and now it would release him. In a few hours time, someone would no doubt undo all of Q’s work – or, since it was daylight, the people with windows would spread hope and sunshine to those who did not. Cellphones still worked, so Q didn’t doubt that outside help would have been called in, as embarrassing as that had to be. 

Therefore, it made perfect sense for Q to escape via Silva’s car. Outside help would pause that much longer before stopping the car of the infamous Agent Silva. 

Plus, as he slid behind the wheel and proceeded to hotwire the car, Q found some comfort in the heavily-tinted windows and the knowledge that his little phone – his lifeline from the moment he’d stolen it – was nestled in the back. Granted, _he’d_ been nestled in the back, but he pushed those memories to the back of his mind as he got the car working and adjusted the seat and mirrors to something more accommodating for his height. He coughed a little, even though there was no dust in the car. For the moment, being barefoot felt good, because he was too hot, especially the right side of his face where the back of Silva’s hand had left a lasting impression. 

Q began the last stages of leaving, waving goodbye in his mind: _‘See you around, James.’_ Even saying the man’s first name in his head felt weird, but he figured he’d earned the right, at least this once. Especially because he doubted he’d ever see the man again.

He’d been seeking a way to calm the confusion he felt about 007, and now he’d unexpectedly found it. It was much harder to decide if he had feelings for a man if he was far, far away. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to look out for my new fic - I've got multiple chapters written, so hopefully uploading will happen fairly quickly on it! (And I plan to upload the first chapter tonight) 00Q, wingfic


	18. Finding Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q's health is deteriorating, and so is his trust. 
> 
> It's time for Bond to bring his Q home, and maybe finally settle out some feelings before they tear a certain hacker apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realize that I have no respect for the laws of physics and no knowledge of electronics - therefore, if you see mechanical impossibilities, JUST GO WITH IT. I will do anything for the sake of plot.

~^~

 

It took hours. Whatever bug Q had released into the systems, it had MI6 locked down tighter than a dog’s jaws – and Bond was the only one with a way past it. After he called M and informed her of this, a plan was worked out so that he could ‘un-lock’ the computer to let someone more equipped try to take down the new command codes. That had taken ages because apparently Q had created at least a dozen redundant systems, and every time someone messed up, everytying locked down again and Bond had to start the process all over.

To make matters worse, it was Silva that Bond had to work with, and Bond kept seeing that text on his phone again and again.

And remembering how afraid Q was of Silva.

The moment he’d heard that Silva had dragged Q in hooded and bound and then proceeded to hit him, Bond had reacted so fast that even Silva’s double-o training hadn’t been up to the test. Bond’s fist had flashed out so fast that he’d spun the larger man halfway around and into the wall. And M, who had let slip this bit of information with cold detachment, didn’t do a thing to stop him or reproach him afterwards. In fact, she’d just watched with eyes like frosted razors, satisfaction kindling somewhere deep inside there where it could barely be seen. 

“And you’re surprised that he did this?!” Bond raved, after Silva managed to at least partially unlock the computers (this all being after he’d recovered his footing as well, although he was still spitting blood out of his mouth from time to time). Bond’s anger was far from gone, and from the way M watched, he wondered if she’d maybe let him kill Silva. Years of teamwork suddenly meant nothing when James was put face-to-face with Silva’s sadism towards an addict who Bond had come to understand and perhaps even love. 

The topic of Q staying with Bond this whole time had come up, but, unexpectedly, M had quashed most of the questions that Silva had started in on. Silva and Bond both had been shocked by her lack of interest in interrogation (Bond had been fully-prepared for a full tongue-lashing of the highest order), but she simply turned to Bond coolly and asked, “What has he done since you took him in?”

“Mostly recovered. Depleted my stores of sugar, at least until he caught a cold. Then he slept a lot. The only interactions he’s had with MI6 were to try and find something for that bloody addiction of his.” Of course, later, as Silva had slowly wrangled the computers under control, they’d found out that was a lie. Part of the lie was obvious now – Q had apparently created ‘Safeguard’ for himself – but Bond didn’t mention it, instead meeting M’s eye shrewdly. 

Despite the blatant evidence of Safeguard, M didn’t press at all. 

After Bond loosened most of Silva’s teeth, Silva didn’t question either, knowing 007 wouldn’t tolerate it. Bond looked on the edge of killing. 

When news came in that Q had _definitely_ escaped in Silva’s car, the pale agent finally couldn’t keep himself quiet any longer, however. “We can’t just let your little pet hacker run free, you know, James,” he said, smooth despite the blow he’d received. It wasn’t quite a match to the one he’d delivered to Q, but the irony was lost on no one. 

“You call him that again, and I’ll bury you so deep not even worms will bother to find you.” 

Again, M didn’t step in. She was a strange woman, M. Some days, she could be so cold as to be heartless, and those were the days that Silva killed people. However, beneath that frosted skin she had a moral compass that spun in secret, and there were times like now when she’d had quite enough of Silva. She expressed this change in temper very subtly: she simply allowed Bond to be mouthpiece to her temper, which he was more than happy to do. 

Still, Silva – for all of his double-o status – was not always perceptive. He expected support from her side, and directed his carefully calm words at her, “I’d recommend sending an agent or two back to Bond’s house. No doubt _Q_ has gone there.” He stressed the title almost comically, but that didn’t hide the way he hated the title, an accidental link to the ‘Quartermaster’ title he so wished to have.

M’s eyes narrowed the barest tick, just visible in the way the fine lines around her eyes deepened. She looked to Bond. 

He answered without prompting, but with absolute surety as he met her eyes, “Q won’t be there.”

“Of course he will,” cooed Silva softly, looking up from the computer to smile indulgently, “Stop protecting him, James.”

This time, 007 went for brutal honestly instead of violence, shrugging and retorting, “He won’t, and I’m not. Q…” Thinking too closely about the smaller man hurt, because Bond didn’t know where he was. But he got the words out, looking at the floor, “Q values safety more than anything else. _Anything._ And since you broke into my apartment, he’s not going back there for blood or money. He’ll locate some other place that he deems safe.”

Unbeknownst to Bond, M was watching him, a curious expression flitting across her face as she saw the rare wash of emotions on her 007’s face. She’d seen Bond in many conditions: amused, sarcastic, mutinous, frustrated, drunkenly lost, glacially enraged, even emptily suicidal. This was new, however. Whereas all of Bond’s emotions were either made out of the stuff of broken mirrors – all turned to show anything but himself, created for deception and deflection – or cutting knives, these emotions were genuine and gentle. That, more than anything she’d seen thus far, moved M to start making decisions in her head. Finally, she began to ask questions: “Bond, did you say that Q behaved for you while you had him in your custody?” When Bond opened his mouth to reply (he truly was being well-behaved today, punching fellow agents aside), M added sharply lest he forget whom she was, “Don’t think that your keeping him from me will _not_ be forgotten. Rest assured, I plan to make life very difficult for you.”

007 was known for never bending, but perhaps he looked the teensiest bit sheepish, and at least had the decency to flinch a little. “Yes, M.”

“Good, now answer the question.”

Again, there was that emotion again – genuine gentleness – but this time touched with a protective heat that hinted at staggering depth. “The whole time Q was with me, he expressed nothing but regret for being forced to play the role he has as a hacker. He showed no interest in further hacking.”

“Well, that is rather too bad,” M said, the faint wryness in her tone startling everyone. When she continued, both Bond and Silva nearly had heart-attacks in tandem. “Seeing how unmatched his skills are, I was beginning to wonder if having him on our side might be better. You already had us part way there, Mr. Bond, if Q was willingly living with you.”

Silva had turned a mottled color, and M unconsciously braced herself as she turned to face his inevitable wrath. He was shaking with it. “You’re talking nonsense,” he exploded, quite completely losing the cool, oiled-smooth tone he was known for, “This hacker is a menace, and far from matchless-”

“He kept _you_ out, Mr. Silva,” interrupted M archly. She was a small woman, but something about her voice and the way she held herself made her seem bigger than a dragon. “You shouldn’t need reminding, but the only reason you are working on that computer now is because Bond gained Q’s trust enough to be allowed a back-door in.”

As if the universe itself were in favor of Q, the computer chose then to deny Silva access; his lack of attention allowed Safeguard to slip in and undo what he’d done, and the screen went blank. Bond wasn’t sure whether to sigh in annoyance at having to start over again, or laughing like a lunatic at it all. This was not quite the reaction he’d been imagining for Q’s first appearance at MI6. 

“007, I want you to find Q again,” said M, tone as frosty as ever but perhaps something more…human…in her eyes. “You did it once without much help, so I assume you can do it again?”

There was a faint edge of annoyance in her tone now (M hated people going behind her back), and it was a normal enough sound to the recalcitrant 007 that he managed to hide his relief with a faint quirk of a wry smile. “I’ll do my best, ma’am. Right away.” 

“Good. Bring him here. I hope I don’t need to tell you to do so gently?”

Bond’s eyes, cold and dangerous as a wolf in winter all of a sudden, slid to Silva. This once, the other agent had the sense to keep his mouth shut, as perhaps he saw something like his own death reflected and weighed in those blue eyes. “No,” Bond bit out, “You don’t,” and stalked out of the room before he killed someone. 

 

~^~

 

They had to know that he had the car by now. They. MI6. They. Q knew that his cold was back on full-force because his brain felt full of cotton. He brought the car to a stop in an alleyway where it would avoid notice for awhile (hopefully), and leaned over the back seat. The motion sent the blood rushing to his head, and the throb of his bruised cheek was intense enough to make his vision haze to red and even black at the edges. 

But he had to… Had. To. 

Q forced his mind to focus and grabbed what he was looking for, immediately withdrawing back to huddle in the driver’s seat, curling up in a familiar position around the little piece of technology he’d held so dear. 

The phone was undamaged, and had waited patiently where he’d dropped it in the back seat, and suddenly Q wanted to cry…because this was literally the only thing in his life now that represented stability. Bond, he’d decided on the drive over here, had been a fleeting bulwark of safety, never meant to last – nothing seemed to last with Q – but the phone had always come back to him, or he to it. Still, he couldn’t resist the urge to turn it on and check to see if his message had gotten to James.

 _‘Bond,’_ he told himself, curling inwards at the stinging reminder of familiarity he shouldn’t have, _‘Bond. Or 007.’_ But still he felt a wave of something like relief when he saw that, indeed, he’d sent the message he’d meant to Bond. 

Then he started coughing, and it rattled both his injury and his concentration, making him hunch over until the spasm passed. 

_‘Okay, Q,’_ he told himself, scared but determined, _‘Get it together. You’ve got to look after yourself again.’_ Most of the past few years had been spent with people hovering over him, telling him what to do at every turn, but before then, Q had spent most of his time taking care of himself. He could remember how to do it again. Hopefully. The new heaviness he felt in his lungs made him less sure. 

Tucking the precious little phone back into his pocket, Q got out of the car, took a few moments to get his bearings, and then began walking. 

 

~^~

 

The only reason Bond hadn’t killed Silva had been because there had been one solitary thing that pulled at him more strongly: the urge to find Q. If Silva had hit him, there was the possibility that the large, pale agent had even broken bone, because that man was a powerhouse when he wanted to be – and considering his jealousy of Q’s skill, he’d wanted to. And considering how jumpy Q was, Bond was glad that M had also sent agents out to make sure that no one matching Q’s description left the city – because Bond didn’t doubt that Q’s mind was thinking about nothing more than getting as far away from the situation as possible. That was Q’s _modus operandi_ : avoid trouble whenever possible. The few times that Q had actually put up a fight had been when Bond had pushed him _way_ into a corner, and there had been no other choice. 

Considering the scabbed cuts on the side of Silva’s face, Q had already been forced into a corner, and Bond felt a vicious tug of pride at how Q had handled the situation. Bond hoped the little scratches got infected and scarred. 

Now, however, Bond was sure that Q would have reverted to the latter half of his fight-or-flight response. 

Standing in the entrance to his house, Bond saw that a scuffle had indeed gone on – or, at least, he saw evidence of Silva breaking through part of Q’s security and then Q retaliating by turning off the lights. Q and lights… Bond shook his head at the reminder of Q’s other house-darkening escapade, knowing that this recent one hadn’t gone as well. Silva was still deadly proficient in the dark, and obviously he’d overpowered Q. 

Scared him.

Hurt him.

Bond felt the fire light up in his gut again, and wondered sincerely what his own actions would be the next time he and Silva were face to face. If M were smart, she’d keep them apart for eternity, unless she wanted one less 00-agent. 

Next, Bond walked over to the television, one purpose in mind. 

The blond agent's face relaxed with relief as he saw what he’d hoped: no matter how hard he looked, that little phone was gone. And since MI6 still had no record of it, that meant only one thing.

Bond was often accused of just going on, guns blazing, without much forethought, but he was actually a planner when given the opportunity. In this case, that meant that he’d taken just enough time nosing around Q’s phone to find out that it did, indeed, have a way that it could receive calls instead of just sending them to impatient 00-agents. 

Bond still had a link to Q. 

 

~^~ 

 

The first time that Bond got a call through to Q’s phone, he could almost hear the hacker jump in shock. “Q?” Bond asked, muscles tensing reflexively. 

Q hung up with the speed of a startled wren snapping out its wings and flying away. That was the first sign that Q was not going to be easily found.

Or recaptured. Bond began to see things how Q was seeing them – not as a rescue mission, but as a seek-and-destroy one. In Q’s mind, the moment he’d been captured by MI6 had been the moment his pleasant vacation with Bond had ended, and now the game had reset and it was on again – everyone against Q.

The text came after Bond tried calling Q three more times: _I know that MI6 can trace calls. Stop trying._

Unable to tell what kind of tone that message was in, but frustrated that Q was, indeed, avoiding him on purpose, Bond stopped trying to call and reverted to texting back. _No one is monitoring this call._

The reply held a delicate bit of heartbreak inside of it: _Please don’t lie to me, James._

‘James.’ Not ‘Bond’. If Q had addressed the text with a last name or numerical title, the 00-agent would have inferred that the tone was derisive or mocking, but with it labeled James…it read like a plea. 

And after that, Q refused to reply to texts, too. 

 

~^~

 

Bond was beginning to reach his wits’ end, falling to that level of frustration that meant he was dangerously close to tearing the city apart building by building to find Q. The level of his obsession worried him, but when M saw Bond pacing around her office after reporting a third day of no results, she didn’t say anything about his behavior. All she offered was a calm reassurance that Q at least couldn’t have left the city – other agents still had a firm eye on that. That was all they were able to do, however, because whenever they seemed to find a lead, some technological catastrophe followed soon after. Even though Bond had said that Q was likely rather ill, it was clear that the escaped hacker was more than capable of throwing off any attempts to catch him.

“How did you find him before?” M prompted.

If Bond weren’t so frazzled and distracted, he might have been worried about how gentle M’s voice had gotten with him of late. As it was, he stopped his brutal pacing, thinking. 

Then he got his phone out and began texting again. 

 

~^~

 

While Q was very obviously not answering calls, there was still a chance that he was reading Bond’s texts, even if he wasn’t replying to them. Bond was banking heavily on the hopes that he was, for he had often been surprised in the past by how much Q listened even if he didn’t say much.

So, Bond began texting him word-games. 

Speaking them aloud was simpler for Bond, who found that typing numbers into a phone just drove him nuts and made his hands feel large and clumsy. However, if this was the only way to reach Q, then this was what he was doing. Thinking of the puzzle Q had left when he’d directed Bond to find the sample of his blood, 007 tried to replicate the idea in the hopes that Q would be (if not less wary) at least a bit more curious. That brain of Q’s had to at least perk up at the thought of a word-game. 

Since Bond also doubted that Q had a trusting bone left in his body, he didn’t immediately lie in wait at the first place his word-puzzle indicated. Instead, Bond returned to his house and collected a certain sweater. He left it at the indicated location and cleared the area. 

It took a monumental effort of will not to bring MI6 in on this, to have them lay an elaborate but hopefully-gentle trap to spring on Q, but after seeing what Safeguard could do (and the lengths Q had gone to stay free since then, including messing with traffic lights and rigging an atm to smoke like mad and cover his retreat), Bond worried about the possibility of Q evading even that. The hacker was smart, and depending on his health, could be unpredictable or even dangerous, Bond had to admit. 

Plus, if he worked with all of MI6 and Q _did_ manage to get away…then there wasn’t a chance that Q would ever let himself be found again. Bond remembered the sound of betrayal in Q’s voice over the phone after Bond had first allowed Silva to hack that battered little earpiece, the way Q had waited weeks before contacting him again, and then only out of a desperate need for companionship of some kind.

Bond wondered if Q ached for companionship now, or if he’d finally decided it hurt too much to have. 

Patience was rewarded, and when Bond returned the next day to find the sweater gone, he knew he had a plan that might work. He created another puzzle made up of trajectory and angles and planning, and this time went to the house and fished out the honey container because that was the next-favorite thing he could think of to tempt Q with.

This time, when Bond came back, the container was there but what honey had been in it (a sizeable amount, although Q had drained most of it at Bond’s apartment) was gone. This time, there was a hasty ‘Thanks’ scribbled on a napkin and tucked under the container. Bond felt a spike of elation from his toes to the crown of his head, until he started looking more closely, seeing the way the letters shook and the lines were sloppy. Some of that could be attributed to handwriting (he’d never seen Q’s handwriting, and therefore couldn’t judge), but not all of it. Q wasn’t doing well. 

Still Q evaded everyone with the supple skill of a minnow and the bursts of cornered strength more akin to a barracuda. He didn’t hurt anyone, but it was now a known fact that Q could make something with wires do practically anything – including explode. These explosions had remained distractions so far, but it caused enough worry that M advised agents to back off in their hunt. Bond had wanted that from the beginning. 

Next in this slow game of building trust, Bond found the little iPod he’d asked Q to fix just before this whole debacle. It was still only half-fixed, but it had meant something to both of them, and was yet another ‘thing’ that Q had become attached to. 

This time, Bond stayed around, but only close enough to watch – he needed to judge the situation. Too many things had gone wrong by rushing Q or doing things around him without first being sure of all the facts. Just to keep himself from falling to temptation and rushing in, Bond picked a building to watch from, where he could see but not easily or quickly approach where he’d stashed the iPod. 

And so he waited, a bundle of nerves. Bond could sit still for hours awaiting a target, or spend weeks at a time wooing a potential source of information, but suddenly he found he barely had any patience in him. He just wanted Q with him _now_ , in his arms, where he could keep him safe. 

When Q turned up, Bond nearly choked when he saw his condition. 

Q had procured himself different clothing which included a coat, but it hung off him, and while the hacker was still fast on his feet (anyone who had tried to catch him could attest to this) he also shuffled and looked dizzy. He coughed, and even from three stories up, Bond could tell that it was painful. 

~^~

Q’s brain was fuzzy as he approached the indicated location, a large part of him unsure why he was even going. Nonetheless, he moved to crouch and bend under the table, knowing that if his calculations were right, a broken iPod would be taped under there. One hand leaned on the deserted chair next to the outside table, Q felt a cough coming on, and before he knew it his whole frame was being rattled. His bones felt so fragile of late, and he knew on a visceral level that his cold had developed into something closer to pneumonia. It was terrifying, but not as terrifying as being caught again…hit again… His cheek still burned, and he had to keep the hood of his coat up to hide the bruising. Muscles trembling but brain still determined, he waited for the coughing to stop and then stooped, feeling an illogical flash of triumph as he saw what he was after: the iPod. Q knew that he wasn’t thinking completely straight nowadays, but refused to acknowledge that this little game with Bond was the only thing he had that made him smile. It was safe, too, because it was so distant. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Maybe he could have done this always with Bond – just led him back and forth – instead of ever telling him where he was, instead of ever meeting him… 

The pain now was in Q’s heart, a tight vicious fist, and he hunched over and swayed where he stood and felt his throat illogically close up with emotion. Q blamed the emotions on whatever illness he had, just as he blamed the increasing difficulty of his focus or the way he just wanted to sleep more and more these days, like an injured animal huddling in a burrow to try and heal. 

The other option was to think that he was going insane, just as it was insane to think of just playing games with Bond, forever and ever, without any danger or the pain of having to look him in the eye and understand his complexities. Insane or not, Q wished for it with all of his might, with such strength that he shook and felt that, with a swipe of his hand, he could erase the past and rewrite it in these twisted colors. Surely it would have been better if Bond had never rescued him? If he’d just kept talking to him over a battered little phone? Then he wouldn’t be alone, wouldn’t be lonely, but at the same time would be safe…

There was a figure in front of him, breathing hard from some intense exertion like running, or taking lots of stairs. Q blinked eyes red-rimmed from not enough sleep, bewildered and uncomprehending for a long moment as he took in the athletic figure, the blond hair, the glacial blue eyes full of intense worry and almost fear and some other emotion that reached out and tried to _grab_ Q-!

It was that last emotion that snapped Q into recognition, because he knew the mirror of that emotion and that it was connected to confusion and fear and a spike in the heart. Realizing that he was standing in front of _Bond,_ he made a wordless sound of surprise and bolted, pulling together every ounce of strength he possessed. No! Nonononono – this wasn’t how the game was supposed to go! Bond had been playing fair and Q had been safe…no emotions to tangle with…no MI6…no pain.

~^~

Q was shockingly fast when he wanted to be, as if he’d lost a bit more weight and become a leaf to be picked up in a gust. He turned corners so sharply that Bond nearly skidded out trying to chase him. “Q!” he shouted, but couldn’t spare the breath for more. He’d picked a place deserted at this time of day, but a lone cat jumped out suddenly with a squall from behind a dumpster nearly under Q’s feet, so instead of responding to Bond, the younger man tripped. Realizing that he couldn’t regain his footing _and_ keep ahead of Bond, Q stumbled the last little ways into a corner, where he could safely huddle into a ball, back to the wall. 

If Bond thought that Q had just given up and accepted defeat, he was wrong: the second Bond relaxed and stopped in front of him, leaning down hesitantly to touch, Q’s head came up and he lunged. Bond dodged the hand that swiped at him, already angling his other arm to come forward and catch hold of the other man, but at that point he realized that Q had been holding something – just as it scratched his arm. It wasn't as debilitating as a Taser, but it was still an unexpected electrical shock that burned all the way up to 007’s elbow, and he snarled out a curse even as he reflexively fell back. Q dropped what looked like a mess of wires and a battery (something he’d pulled out of his coat-pocket without Bond noticing) and scrambled up to start running again. His hood fell back as he moved, revealing mottled blue and purple bruise fading to green along his cheek and right eye-socket, not hidden in the least by his tangled mat of hair. 

Silva would have laughed at Bond, being outmaneuvered by a scarecrow with a cold, but for Bond this was too serious. He could hear the way Q’s breathing rattled – he’d gotten that close at least – and even now the hacker’s running faltered as he fell to coughing. In fact, before he made it past the next turn in the alleyway, the fit of coughing stopped him entirely. For the second time, Q’s slim body folded up, and this time he was against the wall coughing and coughing as Bond cautiously approached. 

“Q,” Bond said, voice low and steady. He couldn’t tell if Q could actually hear him: one fist was up only because Q was coughing into it, and the hacker’s face was blotchy and mottled from the effort beneath the livid bruising. The sight of that bruising lit a fire of hatred deep in Bond’s soul, and he had to work to keep his face from showing it as he eased closer. “I’m not going to hurt you, Q.”

“L-L-Liar!” Q ground out viciously between coughs, then grew subdued as the last cough sounded like it tore a strip right off the inside of his throat. Now Q whimpered, and his anger fell away as he lost the will to maintain it. He’d never really be angry at Bond – angry that he’d ruined their safe, fun game now, but not really angry for anything else. Bond had done so much to help him…

Now Q just flinched. His chest hurt – most of him hurt – and his brain was shutting down. The run had taken everything out of him, so he could just sit like a pile of collapsed bones against the wall. But his mouth was still moving even as he pulled his knees up, gibbering that came from his vocal cords without actually consulting his brain. He was almost delicately surprised to hear himself speaking. “You’ve already hurt me.”

“Shhhh, Q. I never meant to,” Bond soothed back even as he dropped down onto his haunches near Q. This close, it was clear that there was precious little of the man left. Instinctively, he tapped on the earpiece he regularly carried, a connection that went right to M nowadays. “M, I’ve found him. Alert Medical.”

Q’s eyes had been drifting shut, but they snapped open, and Bond had to reach out and grab Q because he was trying to bolt again. This time, he succeeded, because Q had apparently run out of tricks. Legs kicked and arms flailed, and for a moment Bond was sure that they looked like a perfect, total mess.

Which they were. 

“Eeeasy, Q,” Bond finally managed to say, and the slow exhale of his voice seemed to sink in where other words had not. The pose they were in was awkward: Bond had Q mostly pinned to the wall, but was looming over him, too, since neither had made it up to their feet. His arms caged the smaller man, but that meant he could feel the sharps ridges of Q’s ribs as they heaved against his arms. Feeling emotions clog his throat, Bond buried an impulsive kiss into Q’s hair, murmuring again, “Eeeeasy, Q.” The words just fell out, and he was rocking: “Eeeeasy, love.” 

Q stilled, let out a cough, and froze again. “What?” he rasped. Then he remembered that he was struggling, and tried to start up again, jamming an elbow into Bond’s gut hard enough to make him grunt but not let go. “I’m…I’m not going back!” he argued past a raw throat and lungs that felt heavy; his words caused him to cough again even before fear swallowed him. He began to whimper, tucking his bruised face against the cold, numbing wall. “Please…please, Bond. Surely you don’t hate me enough to make me go back…”

After facing down Silva, Bond wasn’t surprised by Q’s words, although they cut to the core. “I don’t hate you at all,” he argued back in as calm and logical a voice as he could manage, all the while circling his arms a little bit tighter. His ultimate goal was to get Q to stop pressing to the wall, and pressed to his chest instead. 

There had been no immediate answer in his ear, but now there was - M’s voice: “Understood, 007. Your location?”

“Give me a minute,” he growled. He turned his attention back to Q, who was rapidly growing too tired to fight. He couldn’t seem to stop pressing his face to Q's hair, even though it was tangled and dirty, and his own breath rustled strands as he continued to talk in a low, soothing voice that few people thought he had, “How about you tell me why you think I hate you? I just about broke Silva’s jaw when I heard he’d hit you.”

That gave Q a jolt, as he hadn’t known this. It was enough that he didn’t struggle as he felt one of Bond’s arms release him, freeing itself to come up and gently touch Q’s face, near the bruise without aggravating it. He was worried that Q’s cheekbone might even be fractured, and turned the hacker’s face to see more clearly even while Q just shut his eyes. 

“There’s an antidote now, you know.” Bond had an unquenchable need to stay close. Perhaps he was not a patient man, and waiting this long to find Q again had scraped him raw. He never backed off an inch as he moved his lips down closer to Q’s ear to speak to him, his forehead touching the tousled side of Q’s head. “In the time you’ve been giving everyone the slip, MI6 even managed to refine it a bit. Just for you. M doesn’t hate you now, either.”

Q sucked in a ragged breath, either at the words rustling in his ear or at their actual meaning as it impacted him. Almost unconsciously, he was relaxing into Bond’s stubborn, determined hold as it eased him away from the wall. The wall and ground were cold, and Bond wasn’t. Q decided this was logical...avoid trouble, avoid the cold... 

“MI6 won’t hurt you, and Silva sure won’t,” Bond growled, and had forgotten that M was listening until she spoke up, so close now that both Bond and Q had to hear her.

“This is quite correct, Mr. Q. I assume by how easily I can hear you that you can hear me in return,” came the woman’s businesslike voice, “Whether you believe me or not is up to you, but while I often make harsh decisions or even incorrect ones, I am not in the business of lying. What Bond is offering you is safe passage into MI6, where you will be given medical treatment.”

“And then tossed away,” Q growled, some of his fickle temper returning so that his voice came out a growl. Bond actually had to hold him back a little as he turned towards the earpiece like an enemy. 

“I am entirely sure that if we tried to toss you away, Mr. Q,” came M’s unfazed response, or maybe slightly amused, “007 would smuggle you away to his apartment. My 00-agents are known for many things, and one of them is being very hard to budge when they get attached to something.”

“M, politely bugger off, would you?” Bond growled, although he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through him that might have been fondness for the older, shockingly perceptive woman. He turned his attention back to Q. “Can I pick you up? We’re not going to try and stand.”

Q was completely confused now, so much so that he wasn’t sure if he were pushing Bond’s arms away unsuccessfully or holding on successfully. “What are we trying to do then?” he mumbled in bewilderment.

“You were trying to be a bloody pain and make me run on my bad leg,” Bond grunted, even as he settled on his knees a little more and scooted Q that much closer to being off the cold ground and on his lap. Then he couldn’t resist and pressed his mouth to the crown of Q’s head again, pulling back just enough to speak, “Me, I’m just trying to keep you stable until someone with more medical experience than myself arrives.”

“Location, Bond,” M reminded. 

“Tell me Silva’s got two broken legs and then I’ll let you come and take Q in,” Bond snarled with ferocity that made Q jump, finally turned his head. Noses inches apart, Q blinked past smudged glasses as he read the looks of fierce protectiveness and promised violence – violence for Silva, not Q – on his rugged face. Those blue eyes were as keen and sharp as icicles as they met Q’s gaze, open in all ways. 

“He’s on a mission in Siberia, where I imagine he will be bogged down for some time,” was the reply. Perhaps there was a vindictive edge to it. “Beyond that, it has been made indelibly clear to him that he is not to come anywhere near Q.” 

Bond hummed in appreciate agreement before shifting his body and Q’s one last time, finally getting what he wanted: he was sitting, and Q was in his lap, off the ground. “Bond…Bond, this is indecent,” Q tried to argue, even as his body betrayed him and he buried his nose against Bond’s neck. Realizing he’d done that, he felt tears spill over, because he knew that he’d done it simply to gain a bit of comfort before Bond remembered their talk back in the apartment about Q’s overly-affectionate actions…

And judging by how wonderful it felt to be held by this man, to breathe him in and feel the warm pulse of his throat against the tip of his nose, Q became desperately sure that he was attracted to this man. He curled up against the rebuke he expected. He’d talked about MI6 tossing him away, but really, he knew it would be Bond who did it, and still he savored the feeling of beings so close to him. “Bond?” His traitorous mouth was moving again. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” came the perplexed reply. 

Q cringed. Then coughed. He’d unconsciously fisted his hands in the material of Bond’s shirt when he’d curled into him, but now guiltily let go and returned his hands shakily to his lap. Aware that M could still probably hear him (but apparently didn’t want him arrested anymore, or at least not so immediately as before), he tried to be delicate. “Do you remember…what you talked to me about, just before I saw you last at the apartment?” Bond didn’t answer, likely not getting it, and Q started shaking with pain. Why did he have to say this?! Wasn’t his life already crummy enough?! Aware that he was crying in earnest now (albeit silently), he tried to answer but it devolved into racking coughs again because anxiety was only making whatever he had worse. 

“Alleyway off 42nd Street, M,” Bond gave in briefly, even as his arms tightened around Q as if to contain the shudders of each cough. “Breathe, Q. Just breathe.” His hand was rubbing along Q’s shoulder. 

Unable to take it, Q gathered himself enough to bat the hand aside, stopping the coughs by a force of will that left his throat raw. Still, he snapped raggedly, “Stop it, Bond!”

Now Bond was truly perplexed, even as he obediently let his hand drift away to hover just a few inches off. He had to admit, it was almost a relief to see Q angry, because anger was a normal emotion, but right now it was startling. Bond had followed Q’s allusion earlier, but didn’t know what that meant about now. “Stop what?” It wasn't that he didn't like the contact...it was that he did like it. Too much. 

Q shuddered one more time, and, after a painful little breath, lifted his head away from the protective lee of Bond’s neck. “You’re going to make me say it? Mock me?” he bit out bitterly. 

“Q, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” And M was being silent, which was at once both extremely unhelpful and rather merciful all at once. 

“You said when I last saw you that I’ve been crawling into bed with you every other night, practically, and now I’m telling you that you’re right!” Q didn’t have the capacity to yell – he really didn’t. He’d been coughing for days, his throat was a column of pain down to lungs that were heavy with phlegm, and he’d just coughed himself breathless. But he did his best to yell anyway, pushing away from Bond enough so that he could glare right at him, license to kill be damned. “You’re right, okay?! Is that what you want me to say!? Because…because…” Why couldn’t the anger hold? Why couldn’t the anger stay and defend him and make him numb, a red haze that blocked out logic and just let him scream the agony away? Instead, the anger fell, and Q felt weak as tears replaced the strength in his voice. His head hung, and he just collapsed helplessly against a man who had somehow become all tangled up in his heart and was now pulling at the strings. Who would probably push him away any minute. “…Because I’m sorry that I like you, and I didn’t mean to do it, but I do. And, dammit, I’m too sick and tired to lie right now.”

Hearing Q swear was actually what nearly knocked Bond over, and right after that the realization hit him as to what had Q so worked up. Then, on the heels of that, Bond felt shame and regret wash over him, because he knew that he was the cause of this. The conversation came back to him in crystal clarity: his words, harsh and detached, his actions doing nothing to help that and probably a lot to confuse Q. 

And now Q – Q, who apparently was as attached to Bond as Bond was to him – was starting to cry audibly into his chest, limp and unresisting as a broken puppet, wrung out. 

With a jolt, however, Bond then realized that Q must not have quite heard him earlier… He said it once more, very slowly while gently lowering his face down to Q’s messy hair again. “Eeeeasy, love.” 

“Stop it!” Q snapped, agonized and sharp as if he'd been pricked by a shard of glass. He was also panicked and cornered and who-knew-what-else. 

“Q, you’ve got the brain of a genius. Are you listening to me?”

His answer was a thin mewl and another cough. 

“Medical is almost at your location,” M said, but her voice was soft by her standards, and Bond almost felt her retreat out of respect for the fragility of the moment she was listening to. Bond, once again immune to embarrassment, for the first time prickled at the thought of someone listening in to his personal life. But he had Q to worry about, so he let it slide. 

“Q, I said those things because…I was frustrated. Gut reaction. But I didn’t say them because I hated you.” He pressed another kiss to Q’s hair, this time doing so very slowly and purposefully so Q couldn’t possibly miss the sensation. “Every time I woke up to find you, I had to stop myself from just staying put and savoring the moment.” Now Q’s stillness had the quality of shock, which Bond decided to count as an improvement, so he dared to add in some levity to his tone, “Do you have any idea how adorable you look when you sleepwalk? How nice it is to wake up with you? You're better than a blanket.”

Now Q was so still that he may as well have frozen into an ice-cube, at least until he turned his head to stare at Bond with the most priceless look of shock on his face. The bruise was horrible to look at, and Q honestly looked terrible, but before Q could say anything, Bond decided to do what he did best – he leaned forward and impulsively kissed the other man. 

Another positive sign: Q jumped, but didn't pull away. Bond also counted it as a win that Q didn’t scratch him, because the 00-agent had developed a healthy fear of Q’s temper. Smaller Q was, but defenseless in a fix he was not. Bond pulled back, keeping his smile soft because the full smile he wanted to wear would probably be a bit intimidating, considering that Q was fragile right now. 

“You’re not-?” Q tried.

“Ever going to let Silva touch you again?” Bond, sure now that both hands were not necessary to keep the hacker from running away, lifted one arm so that he could gently skim fingers over Q’s bruised face, feeling violence rise up in him when Q winced a little even at the gentle touch. 007 growled, “That’s a given.”

“I was going to say mad.” Q was still just blinking like a damaged owl, and finally said weakly, “I must be sicker than I thought.”

Bond dispelled that notion by pulling Q a little firmer to him and pressing upon him another kiss. On missions, Bond was known for his passionate actions, but now he was gentle, not wanting to hurt his partner – or spook him. Bond was used to life moving fast, but he already knew that that spooked Q. This time, however, he was rewarded by Q responding, if only slightly, just a faint press back against his mouth. Bond hummed his approval, causing Q to pull back with a look of embarrassment. This time it was a new embarrassment, however, so Bond just let his grin spread impishly. “Any more questions?”

“Um…” Q sought around for something; it was hard to think and react all while being ill and while trying to process that he’d just been kissed by 007. Twice. “MI6…?” he tried to return to that topic, still wary. 

“I convinced them that a brain like yours is more useful to them than dangerous,” Bond summed. He was finally relaxing, realizing that Q wasn’t going anywhere – that he’d found him. 

“Plus, getting on the bad side of a 00-agent isn’t something anyone wants to do,” a new voice piped up in Bond’s earpiece.

Q (who’d heard) reared his head back suspiciously, but Bond’s reply was one of more docile annoyance. “That,” he said, beginning to wonder who all was listening in to the tender reunion he and Q were having, “would be the infamous Tanner.”

“Tanner…” Sirens for an ambulance were getting closer, but Q, thankfully, had calmed in Bond’s grip enough that he didn’t even startle. However, as a sign of how foggy he was, Q rather guilessly looked to Bond and said, “I called him an idiot, didn’t I?”

While there were [multiple] indignant squawks on the other end, Bond let a full smirk curl at either side of his mouth. He kissed Q just to kiss him again, mindful of bruises, and let his hands rove up his back because he’d wanted to do that earlier and had held himself back. “See why I like you, Q?” he murmured against Q’s mouth, voice low and throaty and oh-so-pleased. 

“I assume that means you like me because I have no people skills, because I might be really sick right now, but it sounds like I just offended someone.”

Now M was laughing – actually laughing, the woman who was of stone – in Bond’s ear, and she just composed herself enough to say, “Bring our new Quartermaster home now, 007, if you could. I think he has some improvements to explain that we’ve found in our systems of late.”

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it was cheesy! But I'm writing for me - and I liked it. :) 
> 
> I didn't see this ending when I started - I just wove my way to it. To those of you who hate weak-Q, I apologize, but I enjoy showing Q's vulnerable side...because he's got Bond to watch over it <3 Sorry that Q vacillates between coherent and not; that's just how it came out when I wrote it. *shrugs*
> 
> So - this is the end! Hope you enjoyed the ride! Now...to update my other 00Q fic before the readers get restless....


	19. Home at MI6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is taken back to MI6. It's not an easy ride, and it doesn't get smoother once he arrives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I was done, didn't you? (~.^) Lol Okay, so this fic was supposedly finished - but I got many comments asking for a sequel, and I realized that this fic truly felt very open-ended. So, instead of making a sequel, I am just adding chapters! 
> 
> (I would have made a sequel, but wasn't sure I had enough plot/drive to succeed at that - just adding chapters is much less intimidating!)

There were sirens now...ambulance sirens...why were there sirens?  Q, for some reason, couldn’t get his brain to answer that question, or any other questions for that matter...which was odd, considering that he was usually a genius.  He tried to open his eyes and figure out what was going on, but they’d grown too heavy, and it was better to just keep them shut.

Q wasn’t actually comfortable, although it took him a moment to notice - as his brain swam through sludge, he realized he was cold and wherever he was sitting was oddly shaped, and it felt like he had a boulder sitting on his chest.  Or in it.  He pulled in a heavy breath and heard it rattle.  ‘ _Ah.  Well, that’s not good_ ,’ he had the brain-power to deduce, even as the word ‘pneumonia’ floated to the surface of his brain.  Yes, that was it...he had been sick, and had gotten sicker.  

And then what?  He couldn’t remember.  

The earth seemingly shifted and Q’s oddly-shaped seat became arms that were curling around his body, and Q thrashed as he sensed the ground falling away beneath him.  

“Q!” a voice right above his head barked, “Q!  Stop it!”  The arms tightened and the world steadied a bit.  The mild exertion of wriggling, however, seemed to have rattled something loose in Q’s chest so that he started coughing.  

The voice...the voice...the voice the voice the voice…  He knew that voice.  Bond?  

“I’m pretty sure he’s bloody got pneumonia,” came Bond’s voice, turned elsewhere and mottled with irritation now.  Q wanted to cringe, because an irked 00-agent was nothing to joke about.  All he seemed able to do was cough, though, and scramble feebly to pull his thoughts together from wherever they’d floated off to.    

“He’s pretty active for pneumonia,” a completely foreign voice said back.  Q had enough brainpower to wonder what that was supposed to mean, but then a few memories of the past few hours...days...floated back to him.  Ah.  Yes.  Active.  Running, hiding, evading, and once electrocuting Bond.  

Bond was obviously not amused, and shifted his arms until one was beneath Q’s knees and the other behind his shoulders while the smaller man coughed and tried to remember if 007 had forgiven him for the impromptu taser-ing.  “You have no idea.”  By the tone of voice, he perhaps was still holding it against Q.  Brilliant.  The hacker’s memory was still clouded and fuzzy, but he hoped he got his brain together before 007 decided to exact retribution of some sort.  

“How’s the leg, 007?”

“Worse after chasing the ‘pretty active’ bloke with pneumonia,” retorted Bond, “Now get out of my way.  I’m going with him in the ambulance.”  

The world moved again, and Q thought he was going to be sick, but his eyes still felt too heavy to open and orient himself.  Instead, he just clung to the chest in front of him and trust that it was 007 and not some stranger whom he didn’t know.  Now that he wasn’t hacking up his lungs, he could hear the noises of boot-steps first on concrete and then on the harder surface of the back of a van.  Q’s brain woke up enough to connect the sensory input with what everyone had been saying, and felt quite proud of himself to recognize that he - and agent Bond, it seemed - were now mounting up in the back of an ambulance.  It wasn’t exactly genius-level thought, but it was something.    

“Put him down here,” the stranger’s voice said, capable and sensible.

“Don’ need ’n ambulance,” Q muttered, swinging his arms for something to grab onto as he was lowered onto another surface - one not made up of muscle and bone, which bothered Q more than he expected.  Why should it bother him?  Seconds ago he’d been wondering if 007 was mad at him, but now he wanted to stick to him like a leach.  One of the hacker’s flailing hands met up with a wrist, and he calmed down as he tightened his fingers around warm skin, deciding that Bond would have to be a cruel man indeed to do anything vengeful to a scrawny addict with pneumonia.  

Q also started in on another coughing fit that rattled his brains right then, so that his powerful mind pretty much short-circuited until it stopped.  By that point, an oxygen mask was over his face, and breathing grew easier.  

The wrist was still in his grip, and twisted slightly, but only to grip his in return in a gesture that surprised Q.  Callouses brushed against the hacker’s skin, and the other man’s hold was imbued with power even though it was relatively loose.  There was something else about his most recent encounter with 007 that he was forgetting...it felt important, as one of Bond’s scarred thumbs brushed over the bones of his wrist in a more-than-friendly gesture.  

“I’m going to put an IV in.  He needs fluids, if nothing else, poor fellow,” came the stranger’s voice, redirecting Q’s flagging attention.  The memories of the alleyway he’d been dredging up fell apart and disappeared again.  

“What?” he managed to demand.  It was hard to talk with the oxygen mask, so Q - quite sensibly, he thought - tried to shake it off.  He knew what an IV was, logically, but something about the whole idea made him nervous - enough so that he wanted to just slow the world down so that he could think it over.  “I don’...don’t know…”  Why couldn’t everything bloody wait for him to catch up..!  For the first time, the sluggishness of his brain began to truly frustrate him, and his breathing picked up.  

“Q, you’re _fine_ ,” he heard 007 stress, then clarify in a more rueful tone, “More fine than you’ve been for quite awhile, actually.  This is a long-overdue medical trip for you.”

All humor was lost as the person seated at Q’s other side gripped his arm suddenly, and alarm shot through Q’s system like an electric shock.  The kick of adrenaline got his eyes open at long last, and he jerked his head so swiftly that he nearly lost the oxygen mask and his glasses in one go, all to turn his head and see the needle heading towards the back of his hand.  He didn’t need his brain at full capacity to know that he didn’t care for that at all.    

“Hold him still!!” the stranger demanded as Q’s instincts kicked in, and be began fighting in earnest.  No!  No!  He was _not_ getting jabbed with a needle.  He’d had enough of needles, and the wickedness they could bring - that they always brought.  Q was sicker than a dog and weak from how long he’d spent on his own in this condition, but if there was anything that made him fight, it was the threat of being drugged.  It would be a cold day in hell before Q forgot about all of the needles that someone else had shoved into his arms, and while he might be an addict, that didn’t mean he liked it.  

Q was awake and struggling now, and although the mask held by elastic to his face encumbered his vision, he instinctively managed to rip his hand free of the brown-haired man trying to hold it.  The ambulance was moving already, but now things were really moving in the back, as the future Quartermaster of MI6 tried to viciously hold his own.  For someone who had been borderline comatose a moment before, the slim man sure was moving now.  

It took only a split-second for Q to create chaos, but within the next split-second, the 00-agent also in the back of the ambulance was reacting - and he had a lot more practice at it.  Bond slung an arm around Q’s middle as the ill hacker started to lurch upright.  The motion caught one of Q’s arms, and Bond used his spare hand to catch the other, growling curses under his breath the whole time because this had gotten out of hand so quickly.  Q was yelling, too, and so was the medical personnel, creating a general cacophony that lost one participant as a lucky kick on Q’s part got the doctor in the stomach.  At that point, Bond finally got a good enough grip to drag Q backwards off the gurney; that got Q away from his target/opponent, and half onto 007’s lap.  “Cool it!” Bond ordered, the words grated out between his teeth and possibly directed to both the doctor and Q.  He otherwise ignored the wheezing medic recovering on the other side of the gurney.  

Instead of being cowed, Q merely jerked his head back and forth, nearly hyperventilating on the oxygen being wafted across his face; he would have dislodged the mask entirely, but Bond freed up one hand to trap it against Q’s face.  Thanks to Silva, Q was sporting a pretty impressive bruise across one cheekbones, and the pressure of the mask triggered a flair of pain that distracted him for a second.  

Bond used that second to lean his head by Q’s ear, talking in an urgent, calming tone, “It’s just an IV needle, Q.  Come on, big brain like yours, you’ve got to know what that is.  Just breathe, Q.  It’s going to be fine.  I’ve got you.  Just relax.”  It wasn’t hard to hold Q still like this, but with the smaller man’s fragile condition, it was harder not to hurt him, and the sooner they got Q stabilized, the better 007 would feel.  

Quivering with anxiety and fatigue, Q stopped fighting for a moment.  His feverish eyes opened above the oxygen-mask, angling to catch 007’s face as best he could.  That close, his eyes looked so bloody young and fearful that 007 felt something tear in his heart.  “You’ve got me?” Q whimpered in a heartbreakingly hopeful voice.

It was clear that Q’s brain still wasn’t entirely on, or else he wouldn’t be so open with his vulnerability.  Bond and Q had been housemate’s for over a week before Silva had gone and ruined the tenuous trust growing between them, and in that time, Q was only ever open with his emotions when he was either sick or mostly asleep.  This was the former condition, unfortunately.  “Always, Q,” Bond assured the smaller man in a low voice as his own emotions twisted around his chest like a fist on his heart.  He wasn’t used to showing emotion either.  “Now get back on the gurney.”

A jerky nod - hesitant at first and then repeated more surely - greeted him, and Q allowed himself to be eased back onto the flat surface.  The fight had lasted all of two minutes, but it had clearly used up the last of Q’s energy reserves.  The medic still looked wary, meeting Bond’s eyes and flicking distrustful glances at Q while rubbing his sore belly.  In response to the look, 007 glared back, but nonetheless kept his hands on Q to make sure there was no repeat performance: one hand on Q’s near shoulder, the other reaching across him to grip his wrist.  

Q coughed a bit (something as normal as breathing for him, at the moment), but did as told, focusing on breathing.  Part of his mind, however, wandered.  He felt a jab of embarrassment mixed with a confusing sort of guilt, realizing how hard was concentrating on the two points of heat created by Bond’s hands.  Why was he thinking about that so much?  He barely had brainpower to spare.  Something inside told him to be ashamed of that, but the upside of being exhausted and feverish was that thoughts slipped away like fish in a stream.  He just let Bond gently turned over his hand until the medic could get access to the back of it, and focused on warm skin, callouses, and iron strength instead of the pinch of the IV sliding in.  

“Can I put him under?” he thought he heard the medical person murmur.

Q didn’t hear an answer, and wondered whether Bond nodded or whether the comforting pressure of the man’s hand on his shoulder was what sent him off to sleep.  He wanted to take that warmth and wrap himself up in it, but at the same time, he feared that it wasn’t proper for him to do that at all.  

~^~

“007,” M came up and greeted her returned 007 agent, who was pacing the hallways and rubbing his hand back through his short blonde hair.  Usually he only looked his agitated when he hadn’t been sent out into the field in a week or so.  

He didn’t do anything more than meet her eyes before he ground out, “Q’s a wreck, and Silva fractured his cheekbone when he hit him.”

“Seeing as Silva is facing off against criminals in Siberia, he’s well on his way to being reprimanded for that,” was M’s collected reply, but her eyes had gone cold in a way that said she felt a rage very like what 007 was feeling...and maybe a bit of guilt.  It was shocking that she would be siding with Q - after all, just days ago, he’d shut down MI6.  For the _second_ time.  

Q had a habit of growing on people, however.  At least, that was 007’s experience in the matter.  

M was still talking, “I suppose there’s no point in telling you to clear out of here before you make Medical nervous?”

“No point at all,” Bond replied smoothly, but his grin had the oily quality of an ill-tempered snake.  Someone had tried to remove him from the vicinity already, and that altercation had ended swiftly and with one traumatized (but alive, which should count for something) security guard.  007 backed off from his homicidal stance a bit, dropping the fake, vicious smile and sighing, “Look, M, I’m the only one he knows, and if he wakes up in a completely foreign place, he’s going to hit a level of panic that only I might be able to bring him down from.”  

“Panic alone isn’t going to get him out of handcuffs and past security,” M pointed out logically.

Bond retorted just as logically but twice as viciously, “Yes, but it might well kill him, sick as he is.  He’s also going to be going into withdrawal soon, and no one’s told me anything more about the antidote yet.”  He tried not to sound petulant and moody at the end, and almost succeeded.  Leaning against the wall and folding his arms, he tried to look less like he wanted to shoot something.   _That_ endeavor failed completely.  

“Seeing as you had this whole thing going on under my nose for awhile, you should be glad I don’t have you security clearance deleted altogether,” M snapped, and 007 finally looked down, suitably chastised.  That got M’s hackles to lower in response.  “I’ll look into it.  I’m a interested in getting Q up and running as you are, if only so I can make sure he hasn’t left any more bugs in out computers.  On that note...”  Something that might have been a smirk in another life twitched at the farthest edges of M’s mouth, startling Bond enough to actually make him jump.  It was a fact that M smiling was more dangerous than her glaring.  “You are to stay within MI6 until further notice.  I won’t pretend to know all that is going on between this Q fellow and yourself, but it must be rather important if he makes you the only back-door when he locks down our systems.”

“So you’ll let me stay in Medical and watch him?” Bond pressed his luck.  

M nodded, slightly grudgingly, and watched as her 00-agent relaxed.  Even if she hadn’t heard the conversation between him and Q over the earpiece, the loosening of tension in his shoulders would have told M a lot about just how attached the man was to the hacker he’d caught.  “If I hear that you’re antagonizing anyone here, I’ll have you put in a holding cell until further notice, though.”

“Understood, M,” he nodded quickly enough.

M snorted.  “If I knew you could be this compliant, I would set up a situation like this years ago.  I only wish it hadn’t taken two blackouts in headquarters to do it.”

“Those two blackouts also gained you the best hacker in England,” Bond was shrewd enough to follow up, wisely sidestepping the comment about his obedience.  He liked to think that he was...creatively obedient...for the most part.  “Arguably the best in the world, since foreign hackers haven’t had half as much luck as he’s had anyway.”  

The calculating look on M’s face was three-parts intimidating, one part encouraging - because it meant that she’d been telling the truth when she’d said she really wanted the drug-addict in the next room to be their Quartermaster.  True, he wasn’t exactly Quartermaster material right now, but when he wasn’t sick or high, he had the skills - and he already had the nickname/title.  

Bond pressed his luck, hoping M’s mood was better than she was letting on.  He grinned faintly as he pointed out, “00-agents have to kill two people - Quartermaster’s have to take over MI6 twice?  If I didn’t know better, I’d say Q aced the entrance exam.”

M told him tartly that he was not nearly as funny as he thought he was, told him to turn in his gun and change into clean clothes before starting his stake-out in Medical, and turned away to walk briskly down the hall without further comment on the matter.  Bond counted that as a win.  

~^~

Everything was fuzzy and thick, as if not only his brain but his entire world had been wrapped in gauze.  It should have been an unfamiliar feeling, but it wasn’t, and panic began seeping into Q’s system almost before he’d registered it.  Mental sluggishness meant he’d been drugged, and the worst part was, he couldn’t even remember where he was this time.  Where they still in that same abandoned building, or had Caesar moved him again?  Did he have a room of his own this time, where he could recover alone, or did he have to quiver and twitch in fear of any stray touch that might come his way?  The panic grew and bubbled upwards, the tide rising so that he began to choke and drown in it.  His I.Q. meant nothing at times like this, and to make matters worse, he ached as if he’d fallen down a flight of stairs.  

Q’s senses winked on enough for him to pick up more fine details, like a flickering light-bulb throwing random objects into relief for split-seconds.  Blankets...thin but warm...bed...not the floor this time…

Needle in the back of his hand.  

Almost before consciously realizing it, the hacker began struggling to escape the familiar pinch where he knew a needle was nosed into the skin at the back of his right hand.  Something clattered, and his right wrist would move, but Q hazily swung his left one over, clawing around and wishing he weren’t so damn clumsy right now…!  He fought in complete silence, knowing that sound would attract attention, and attention was never good.  He’d just snagged his fingernails in what felt like tape when a powerful grip encircled his left forearm, and only then did the dark-haired young man let out a yelp, the sound tearing raggedly in his throat.  His chest convulsed in a cough, and he kicked and jerked his arm in an effort to get free, but fighting was awfully difficult when one was wrapped in blankets, sans spectacles, and as weak as a kitten.  

“Q!  Q, would you bloody stop it already!” came an exasperated, low growl that had Q freezing, forcing his leaden eyes open to try and focus.  A blonde-haired image swam into a fuzzy sort of focus, leaning over him just close enough for Q to make out a truly spectacular glower.  Bond.  “Good,” breathed out the man above him, still pinning Q’s left arm.  The other was held in place by a handcuff secured to the bedrail.  “I take it this means you’re listening to me now?”

“007?”  It was horribly embarrassing how squeaky and mewling his voice came out, like the whimper of a puppy.  Q wanted to drag the one-word question back in and bury it in a deep, deep hole.  He settled for grimaces and then coughing a few more times, rattling loose phlegm in his throat.  It felt like being internally scraped with sandpaper.  

If he’d had his glasses, Q might have been able to see the agent’s face relax a bit.  “I think you can at least call me Bond by now,” he chuckled, slowly releasing the thin arm from his grip and sitting back.  Q blinked a few more times, looking rumpled and even less healthy with his glasses off, and looked over at his right write - this time without reaching for the IV tapped to his hand.  

Quick hazel eyes that were trying their best to shake off illness and sleep fixed on Bond’s face, the tense purse of the smaller man’s lips giving away his remaining anxiety.  “May I...maybe I correctly assume we’re back at MI6?”

“Yes.”  Bond resumed his seat.  He’d been catching a bit of sleep in the unsurprisingly uncomfortable guest-chair when Q had suddenly gone from unconscious to thrashing in less time than it took most cats to startle.  “In Medical, to be precise.  You can blame them for the IV…”  Bond paused significantly, watching Q blink shortsightedly at him and wishing the smaller man could see his deadpan expression.  “...Which I take it you don’t like, seeing as you’ve now tried to pull one out three times.”

“Wait...three times?”  Q winced, as if he hadn’t realized it was quite that bad.

“You tried more than once in the ambulance.”  Bond smirked, saying quite sincerely as he lounged back in his chair, “It was actually rather impressive, considering you shouldn’t have been able to twitch a finger.”

Q’s cringe was more visible this time, and 007 felt a pang of regret as he realized that the hacker really was uncomfortable with all of this.  In fact, Q looked on the verge of apologizing when he instead decided to change tack, pulling a bit shakily at the handcuff.  “And whom do I have to thank for this?”  

There was so much careful, measured weariness in that tone that it was like talking to Q for the first time again: back in the old building, when Q had been trying to navigate Bond’s mood and whims like a person stepping through a minefield.  Seeing Q this nervous again put Bond on edge without even realizing it.  “You shut down MI6 headquarters twice, Q,” he reminded, “and escaped once.  You’re lucky there isn’t a wall of guards at your door.”

“Well, there’s _you_ ,” Q noted right back, looking up to gauge 007’s reaction before remembering that, without his glasses, he couldn’t see the man’s expression.  While Q looked for his glasses, Bond’s brows lowered.  

“I’m not here as your jailer, Q.”

Although he wasn’t going to say it at risk of being impolite...Q didn’t believe him.  Now that his brain was coming reluctantly back online, all logic pointed in the direction of him being in a moderately better holding cell than he’d expected, with a guard who at least didn’t seem actively interested in hurting him.  It was no more or less than he’d expected.  “Where are my glasses?” Q asked instead of addressing Bond’s statement.  

00-agents studied a lot of things, and evasion tactics was one of those things.  Therefore, he frowned as he noticed the neatly evaded subject, along with the fact that Q hadn’t relaxed yet.  Outwardly, the hacker’s fine-featured face was composed, but little tics gave him away, like the slight downward twitch at one side of his mouth that 007 was willing to read as a sign of heavy unease.  Unsure just how to address the problem when Q wasn’t actually _doing_ anything, 007 settled for getting the man’s glasses and asking, “What do you remember, Q?”  He got up smoothly to pluck the spectacles from their place on a nearby table, which had been slightly out of Q’s reach anyway.  He considered just giving them to Q, but then changed his mind, and on a whim placed them on Q’s face himself.

Q’s head pulled back and he took in a shuddering breath that quickly became another cough.  His free left hand lifted to cover his mouth, glasses back on his nose but eyes squeezed shut, until the fit passed.  He looked flushed, tired, and defeated.  Staring at his knees as he tried to get his wind back, Q murmured when he could, “Bits and pieces.  I have an eidetic memory, but at the moment it feels more like a moth-eaten tapestry, if you’ll pardon the slightly extravagant metaphor.”

The slight dry tone was barely there, but it sounded familiar in Bond’s ears, from the very few occasions when Q had been totally relaxed.  It made the blonde-haired agent smile and sit down again.  “Do you remember escaping MI6?”

Wincing and closing his eyes again, Q nodded.  “Yes, that is _quite_ clear.”

“How about evading MI6 operatives like it was child’s play?”  Now Bond was smirking a bit, finding the memory more amusing than he should have.  At the time, he’d been frantic, and life would have been easier for everyone if Q had not turned out to be such a technological hazard to all who caught up with him.  

“I remember well enough to realize that I probably have some personal apologies to make.  I…”  Q suddenly looked over, eyes even larger than usual as he realized something.  “I didn’t injure anyone, did I?”  His hands fisted in the sheets, and it didn’t take a mind-reader to figure out what he was thinking: being caught was bad enough when you’d undermined the entire security system of your captors...it was worse when you were trapped with people holding personal vendettas against physical injuries.  Q was shaking hard enough that the links of the cuff rattled, and suddenly Bond felt a surge of protectiveness prickle up his spine.  

“Easy, Q.  You didn’t hurt anyone permanently, and definitely not enough that they’re going to try and take it out of your hide,” Bond replied, making it clear in his tone and the subtle flexing of his shoulders that any such attempts on Q’s health would be dissuaded.  Strongly and viciously.  Possibly permanently.  “So far as anyone’s concerned, you’re an asset to MI6 now.  End of story.”

It took a moment, but Q must have accepted Bond’s word as truth, because his body sagged.  His spine seemed to fold like a stalk of wheat, losing the ability to support itself and bending beneath the wind.  The scrub-top he’d been dressed in showed the prominent architecture of his vertebrae and ribs beneath.   Usually, Bond was trained to go for weakness like that and break it, but instead he felt again that stirring of protectiveness go through his system.  There was something else beneath that protectiveness - something admittedly more selfish, and more carnal.  It was still a fledgeling emotion, but it drove him to ask anyway with nonchalance that he feigned like the pro he was, “And do you remember me catching you?”

Q’s head snapped up and he blinked like a deer in the headlights - in fact, he looked very much as shocked and fearful as he should have been if facing an oncoming bus.  “I...um…” Q stuttered.  He was clearly looking for the ‘right’ answer, which Bond knew did not necessarily include the truth.  By the way Q was fiddling with the blankets and now avoiding eye-contact, Bond was pretty sure that Q recalled everything perfectly, but was avoiding admitting it.  That made Bond narrow his blue eyes, wondering if he should be miffed or not.  

As it was, Q was swiftly becoming a wreck all because of one question, and this time when his wet coughing started up again, a doctor came in to check on him.  Q went through a complicated array of emotions at the sight of the entering woman with the lab coat, but his chief emotions was relief as he was saved from answering 007’s question.  007, who had wanted to hear Q admit to remembering being kissed by a 00-agent in the middle of an alleyway, felt a nasty sort of irritation spread under his skin.  Sometimes, 00-agents could be childish, too, and it was tempting to embarrass Q right then - perhaps by coaxing the doctor to take his temperature or something.  

But then Q looked over at him, and the urge to be annoying faded: Q might have been elated to avoid Bond’s question about their moment of intimacy, but as the doctor walked over to him, it was clear that the only person in all of MI6 that Q was comfortable with was 007.  007, who had been considering teasing him just because of a barely conceived slight.  

‘ _Why do you trust me, Q_?’ Bond asked inside his head, part in confusion and part in wonder, as the nurse added something to Q’s IV drip that sent him back to sleep before he could protest.  The hacker looked so small as he sagged down beneath the blankets, and he shouldn’t have been so much of a puzzle, but he was.  Bond spent the rest of that night pondering over that puzzle as he sat forward on his chair, elbows propped on the side of Q’s bed, gaze silently watching over the slim figure.  

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right *rubs hands together, then cracks knuckles in preparation* Let's see if I can start to work on some 00Q relationship-time here... 
> 
> Hopefully I'll manage to update this regularly!
> 
> IMPORTANT (maybe not that important) NOTE: before now, I seemed to be having everyone called M 'Mum', which is a habit I can't remember the reason for...regardless, from now on, that will not be the case! She's either ma'am or M, I think.


	20. Bring Me In Gently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is still in Q-branch, recovering. Sadly, he does a lot of thinking while recovering, and comes to a few incorrect conclusions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should be lots of feelz in this chapter...and bonding!!! Lots of Bonding (-w-)

~^~

Because of Q’s weak condition, it was decided that he wouldn’t be able to handle the drug concocted to counter his addiction - unfortunately, that was only slightly more brutal than the alternative, which was to give Q another high before he went into dangerous withdrawal.  

Unable to stand watching, Bond leaned against the wall outside the hospital room while Q was informed of this and then drugged up again, just as if he’d never been rescued at all.  007 angrily thumped his head back against the wall.  If he was being honest with himself, the real reason he was out here instead of in the room was because he quite clearly remembered the last time Q had been drugged, and that it had been 007 forcibly doing it.  Guilt washed through his stomach and twisted with cruel hands, and whatever emotions were showing on Bond’s face and posture had nurses finding another hallway to take to their destination.  It seemed wrong that 007 had dragged Q back here only to have his addiction continue, and the only way Bond could think to make it worse would be to have him standing there, reminding Q of being overpowered by the strong hands of a person he’d trusted.

Suddenly there was a commotion inside, and Bond instantly tensed, muscles and senses as alert as if he were in the thick of a gunfight.  Before he could decide to barge in, however, the doctor and nurse were scurrying out.

Bond couldn’t understand the rueful look the doctor was giving him.  

“He won’t take it,” the doctor began.  He lifted the vial and needle both - it wasn’t exactly the same drug Q had been taking, but rather a simplified version that would be easier to monitor the effects of, and which was easier to make.

“Not surprising,” Bond murmured, expression closed off and posture still dangerously taut.  

The doctor merely nodded, and then looked up at Bond beneath his eyebrows.  “What’s surprising is that he’s asking for you - he said he wouldn’t take it from anyone else.  As easy as it would be to just overpower him or slip this into his I.V., I’d like to do this in a civil way instead, even if that means putting a needle into the hands of a 00-agent.”

Bond was...floored.  Well and truly.  All this time he’d been standing out here thinking about how Q probably still had nightmares about Bond injecting him, only to find out that Q wouldn’t trust anyone _but_ him to do the exact same thing.  Perhaps he would have been flattered, if it weren’t just so wrong.  Maybe Q didn’t realize it, but it sounded like the hacker’s ability to trust was the most battered and broken part of him.  Bond was still numb with shock as the doctor extended the little vial and needle to him, and the agent took them more out of reflex than anything else.  

Nothing more was said.  00-agents had a lot of experience with needles, for various reasons: drugging enemies or targets, self-medicating in the field, or even falling to addictions themselves when killing people just got to be too much.  The latter usually got them removed from active duty pretty quickly, but it was a way out in a game that usually only let its players leave in body-bags.  Slipping needle and container (both still capped) out of sight into a pocket, Bond nodded, still feeling as though he were on autopilot until he could make sense of all this.  The doctor and nurse weren’t looking very forthcoming, so Bond turned and opened the door, deciding to go to the source for answers.  

Q was sitting up in bed, no longer handcuffed.  He was physically somewhat better and less prone to coughing, although his breathing now sounded just a bit heavy, and he cleared his throat with rough effort.  It was hard to tell whether he was clearing his throat because he needed to or out of nervousness, because the hacker’s slim hands were fisted in the sheets next to him, and he was showing all the signs of just coming down from a near-panic-attack.  

“Q,” Bond greeted, sitting warily in a chair a distance away until he got a grasp on the situation.  He propped his chin on his hand without ever removing his eyes from the lithe figure on the bed.  “So the doctor in the hallway said you wanted to see me.”

Hazel eyes turned uneasy beneath tangled hair and prim glasses, and Q looked down at the blankets over his legs.  He cleared his throat again and swallowed.  “Yes...I...uh…  I want you to administer the drug.  To me,” Q fumbled his way through the explanation in a slightly hoarse voice, but kept his tone admirably level.  

“I’d have thought I would be the last person you’d want to do that.”

“Well, you’re not, all right?” Q lost his temper and snapped, then heard himself and reined the temper back in.  Q was right on the edge of some emotional reaction - possibly fear - and was trying very hard not to just fall in.  “Just...please, Bond,” he resumed in a more controlled tone again.

“Q, I don’t know if you realize this,” Bond dropped his hand and sat forward, tone perhaps a little bit harder than he’d intended - but he was tangled up in emotions, too, “but stabbing you with a needle is right at the top of the list of unpleasant things for me.”  His muscles jumped with tension, recalling with disturbing clarity the way Q had screamed - and then begged - against his turned back.  The  fear and hatred in Q’s eyes afterwards had pushed the pain into him like a brand he’d never forget.  “Did you think I _liked_ drugging you up that last time?” he demanded with rough exasperation.  

Upon hearing the regret in Bond’s tone - some of the agony of remembering slipping past the agent’s usual control - Q’s head jerked up, eyes large and blinking like an owl's.  As quickly as that, he saw how this must seem from Bond’s point of view, and remorse flooded his pale face.  “I-I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, meaning it, “I didn’t think that it would bother you.”

Bond arched an incredulous eyebrow.  “You didn’t think that giving you a drug you hated and watching you fall apart afterwards bothered me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”  A bit too late, Bond realized that Q was getting anxious again, now turning his head away to cough as all the talking jarred something loose in his lungs.  He was breathing a bit too fast to really calm down afterwards, but clearly did his best to push past the anxiety of the situation.  “I’m sorry, Bond, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he settled into a cracked version of a professional, polite tone, and Bond decided right then and there that he hated that tone.  It distanced him from Bond, and Bond had gotten used to being let in close.  “It was selfish, and I can only imagine how...childish...everyone must think me.”  The self-deprecating tone didn’t quite manage to make it past shame, as Q hunched his shoulders and talked to the far wall.  The worst part was, he really _did_ sound apologetic.  His next words were as soft as silver slivers, piercing the heart with such deftness that you barely knew where the pain came from.  “I only asked because I didn’t want a stranger to give it to me - not this time.  I’m so used to people who don’t know me and who don’t...care...sliding needles into me, that I thought it would be nice to have someone I trusted with my life give it instead.  Of course, after last time, I doubt you believe me.”  Q fell brokenly silent, resigned eyes turned away from Bond so that he wouldn’t notice if... _when_ he left the room.  “But I just didn’t want any more strangers.  I realize how silly that sounds now, though, and I apologize for demanding that of you.”  He reached for the button he knew would call the doctors back in.  "That was inhumane."

A hand stopped him, reaching over and curling around his wrist.  Q’s head jerked up in surprise, having not heard the agent get up.  “Bond?”

“I never said I wouldn’t do it, Q,” the man’s words rumbled through him, making the hacker shiver without knowing why.  The agent's other hand appeared to ruefully show the small bottle and needle.  “I just said I hated this, and get no joy out of it, but I never said I wouldn’t do it.”

“But, really-!” Q tripped over his tongue, “Don’t feel like..! You don’t have to, Bond, really.”

“I’m going to anyway.”  Hooking a foot around the leg of his chair, the blonde-haired man dragged it closer, sitting even as he drew the shot with practiced skill.  His eyes were stormy, but he hid it by concentrating on his task instead of Q’s torn, uncertain, and ridiculously hopeful expression.  

“I promise I won’t thrash about this time,” Q promised, his smile weak at best because his eyes were flicking to the needle.  Still, he tried to joke in a dry tone, “I won’t even scratch you afterwards-”  He still cut off sharply and flinched back as 007’s free hand came forward to catch his wrist.  Another coughing fit was set off by Q’s sharp gasp of fear.

“Easy, Q,” Bond said, simply rubbing a calloused thumb over Q’s wrist.  “We’re going to do this the painless way - that’s why you’ve got an I.V.”  He gave one last stroke to Q’s wrist before turning and injecting the contents of the needle into the I.V., hearing Q let loose a breath that could have been relief or could have been a whimper.  

“Bond?” came Q’s voice, very small.  

“Yes?”

“Could you…?  I mean, you don’t have to.  Actually, forget I said anything-”  Q’s clumsy attempt at requesting something cut off as he felt the first ripple of the drug, making him gasp and his eyelids flutter.  When they opened again, he looked more scared than before, and Bond saw him look to where the I.V. was taped to the back of his left hand as if tempted to yank it out right now.  

Bond snapped his fingers to regain Q’s attention again, staring down at the hacker seriously once he had his eyes.  “You had a question, Q.  Spit it out.”

“I…” he started, then sank back against the bed as if someone were unstringing his muscles, blinking dazedly.  The drug was kicking in quickly, a haze settling over Q’s brain, and the hacker must have noticed, because he whimpered, soft and thin.  Any hopes of maintaining his dignity were apparently tossed out the window then as Q murmured quietly, “I was going to ask if you could stay with me.”

It was such a simple question, and yet Q had backed off from it at first as if he were asking Bond to commit some sort of heinous crime for him.  Just for that, Bond decided that he was going to acquiesce to Q’s request _with interest_.  Making up his mind, 007 skillfully lowered the bed’s guard-rail on his side, and commanded, “Scoot over.”  

“What?”  Q stared up at him in the most uncomprehending look of shock Bond had ever seen, and he suddenly had to quell the urge to smirk in fond amusement at the look.  

Patience wasn’t exactly an agent’s strong-point, not when there was a faster way to get the job done themselves.  Bond merely moved Q over himself, glad at least that the hacker was light.  While Q was flailing a bit and trying to figure out what was going on, the agent slid up onto the bed next to him, stretching out like he had as much right to be here as Q did.  The shock of Bond’s nearness did a wonderful job of distracting Q from the I.V. in his arm.  The drug was also infiltrating his body and mind more noticeably by the second, so instead of peppering the agent with questions and demands to know what this was all about, Q just tried to make his eyes focus and not let his head loll.  In a way, it was kind of a blessing, because Bond suspected that Q would probably panic before just settling down and accepting the company...especially if the hacker was choosing to ignore that they’d already kissed.  

Q slurred out a few more worried- and embarrassed-sounding phrases before his brain simply couldn’t hold out anymore against the drug, and he gave a shudder before relaxing.  His slender muscles were twitching, from time to time, but it was nothing compared to the hypersensitivity of last time, which was a blessing.  Bond reached over and guided the smaller man’s head onto his shoulder, wondering what it was about Q that made his fingers want to linger in that mop of dark hair.  

“No one’s ever stayed with you, have they?” the agent murmured to himself, feeling the darkest parts of his soul stir and twitch, tasting hatred for people already dead and gone.  Q didn’t answer, too high and strung-out to do anything but sigh in eerie bliss, and Bond just rubbed his cheek absentmindedly against the younger man’s head.  “One bullet was too kind for Caesar,” he ultimately decided, and then settled down to wait out the drug alongside Q.  

‘ _I’ll stay with you_ ,’ his posture silently said, like a sentinel taking up position and standing guard.  

~^~

Q was more or less out of it for some time, and Bond began to suspect that something of a soporific had been introduced into the drug as well - Q was either too hazy to make complete sentences or he was completely out, folded against Bond’s side.  When the doctor poked his head in to ask how things were going, Bond just tossed the empty bottle at him and then growled for him to get out.  Now that 007 had taken on the role of protector, he wasn’t doing anything by halves, and he didn’t like the way Q mewled and fidgeted every time he heard anything.  Bond considered the possibility that sensitivity to sound might be a new side-effect (because Q just couldn’t do things the easy, normal way, obviously), and kept any movement he made small and quiet.  The sound of Bond’s breathing seemed to ease the hacker, though, as he shifted restlessly until his ear was against the left side of 007’s broad chest.  Then he relaxed, a pile of slender bones falling still in an adorable sort of disarray.  Keeping the I.V. untangled had been a problem, thanks to Q’s fidgeting up until now, until 007 had shifted an arm over Q’s shoulder so that he could trap the troublesome arm in his grip until further notice.  Q didn’t mind.  Then again, he was also high as a kite, so he probably didn’t mind anything at all, which only made 007 want to seclude and protect him more.  

It was soon the talk of MI6 that the their most dangerous agent and notorious ladies’ man was holed up in a hospital bed with the man who had earned his entrance into MI6 by crashing its system twice.  M would have been more surprised if she hadn’t weren’t already privy to the relationship growing between the two, but she still couldn’t resist the urge to go down to Medical and see for herself.  On the way, she was met by wary staff-members who cast furtive looks at the hospital room, warning her that going in there wasn’t safe.  M had merely cocked an imperious eyebrow and asked if 007 was armed.  Once she was told that he wasn’t , M had simply walked right in.

She was greeted by a growl and cold blue eyes, but merely snorted.  

“English, Bond, or silence,” M wearily demanded, taking in the scene with swift, efficient swipes of her eyes.  Bond was on the nearest side of the bed, as his training would dictate when protecting an asset, and Q - the poor little sod - was curled up against 007’s left side.  If the agent had had a gun, his right arm would still have been free to use it, and even without, he was quite dangerous.  “I’m surprised you both managed to fit on that bed,” M noted, ignoring the wary stare she was still getting, “Usually, just by yourself you manage to look like Medical wouldn’t be able to make you fit.”

“That’s because, by myself, I’d rather be shot in the leg than stuffed into a hospital bed.”

“Usually, it’s _because_ you’ve been shot in the leg that you’re in a hospital bed,” M reminded, and finally got a bit of a chagrined look from Bond.  “How is he?”  She nodded to Q, who shifted restlessly but didn’t open his eyes.  The hacker’s glasses were on Bond’s side of the bed, meaning that it had been the larger man’s idea to remove them, which had been wise.  

“Drugged all to hell,” answered Bond uncharitably, so clearly unhappy with the idea that M wondered why he’d allowed this to happen at all - regardless of how necessary it had been.  “And asleep for the most part.  I don’t know whether to thank Medical or to exact retribution, because I think that the drug had something to do with his sleeping.”

It didn’t seem that 007 was totally aware of it (which was unexpected, since all 00-agents were hyper-aware of their bodies and their actions at all times in order to survive), but when Q made a breathy noise and shifted, 007 tipped his head enough to rub his chin against Q’s scalp, his concentration and blue eyes never leaving M.  Briefly, M considered reminding 007 that she was his boss, and unlikely to damage the scrawny man whom she wanted eventually to be her new Quartermaster, but she figured the effort to convince Bond wouldn’t be worth the trouble.  She knew what agents were like when they got their hackles up.  “I’m glad I had you turn in your gun before you decided to to assign yourself as Q’s bodyguard.  Or should I call him Quintus?” she referenced the name he’d given.  

Bond just snorted, looking away from M and to the hacker at his side for the first time since she'd come in.  He gave a smile that was part rueful, part annoyed despite himself.  “I haven’t a bloody clue, actually.”

“I’ve got people working on it.”  M watched the two a moment longer, as the hacker gave a full-body quiver like a person riding out a fever, and Bond shifted unconsciously in response.  It was strange to see Bond’s powerful, tanned hand carefully squeezing the fragile bones of the wrist he had in his grip, keeping the I.V. out of the way with exquisite attentiveness.  M knew that Bond could apply the same level of focus to any aspect of his job, but she very rarely saw it stripped of its brutality.  Usually, in the field, it took both alertness and mercilessness to get a job done, but 007 was only using the former right now.  “Medical tells me that within a week, they should be able to administer this counter-drug they’ve worked up.”

“Yes, but apparently the cure is almost worse than the disease,” was Bond’s pessimistic opinion, his eyes narrowing and a muscle flicking briefly in his cheek.  Q twitched and murmured something that may or may not have been English, and his knee slid fitfully against 007’s thigh, which instantly garnered him 007’s attention again.  The agent made soft hushing noises down into Q’s hair before looking up at M with an expression that was half caught-out and half defiant.  “You already knew that I…” he tried to challenge, but found that he wasn’t sure what word he wanted.  It was the most priceless look of surprise that flitted across the agent’s face when words refused to exit his mouth.  

“Seeing as it was your complicated connection to Q that allowed us to bring him in, I’m not going to question it,” M allayed the worst of 007’s fears, watching him relax for the first time since her entrance, “That does not give you permission to terrorize Medical, however, nor does it mean I am not going to start sending you on missions again once Q is coherent enough not to need you and your newly-developed guarding tendencies.”

“Understood, M.”

“Also, 007?”

“Yes?”  A wary tone returned to his voice, not helped by the fact that Q whined softly in his drugged sleep.  

“You’re my agent first, and Q’s second.  Don’t forget that,” she reminded him sternly while refusing to look at the hacker in the room, pale and vulnerable and clearly wrapped around Bond’s heart.  That was something that MI6 had never touched.

What she got back was a serious, level-eyed look usually seen on snakes, but the agent also nodded.  Before she turned to leave, however, he stipulated, “Until someone threatens him, I’m yours.  I’ve always been MI6’s dog, and that doesn’t change.  But if someone threatens him-”

“I really can’t stand it when 00-agents get dramatic,” M retorted to break him off before the tension in him bled out into something more physical - more violent.  The promise in his eyes were lethal, and it took all of M’s years of practice to keep her expression sooth and unaffected.  “You’ve gotten your point across, 007.”  With that, she turned and left.  

Despite her unflappable and tetchy response to 007’s declaration, M was unsettled.  Loyalty was a rare commodity in 00-agents: they usually had just enough of it to follow orders and protect Queen and Country, and had little or none left over for any other facet in life.  007, however, seemed disturbingly attached to a certain skinny addict with a glasses and a bird’s nest for hair.  M was tentatively hopeful that a connection like this might keep 007 grounded where most agents of his caliber were basically emotionally-stunted bombs waiting to go off.  

It was an optimistic thought, and M tempered it with pragmatic, proactiveness: she gave Medical strict orders not to enter that room unless absolutely necessary, and unless they were aware of what they were walking into.  She also decided that it would be smart to keep 007 and Silva apart for all eternity…

~^~

As it so happened, Q fully regained coherence on one of the rare occasions that Bond got up to stretch his legs.  With Medical suitably cowed and resigned to his presence, it was safe to go and get coffee.  There was no question that Q had been recently accompanied by another, warm-bodied person, however, because the bed next to him still retained an impressive amount of body-heat when he woke up, and he was still taking up only a fraction of the cramped hospital bed.

When 007 returned with coffee in one hand, Q just stared at him for a moment, at a loss for words.  What finally fell out of his mouth was, “Have you been sleeping with me?”

“It seemed fair to repay the favor,” Bond joked, and Q winced, because it brought to mind the embarrassment of being told that he apparently sleepwalked naturally towards well-built, blue-eyed men.  Despite how he was avoiding the topic, he was remembering everything quite clearly as the fog left his brain.  He just wasn’t sure what to _do_ with that information…!  “Besides that, I said I’d stay with you, and while I might be a lying bastard to most of my enemies, with you, I can keep my word.”  He sat down next to the bed this time, and after a moment’s thought, offered the coffee to Q.  Then he sat back and smirked crookedly, adding, “Apparently I’m fair, too, if your little hostile takeover of MI6 computers is any indicator.”

Q made an uncomfortable face again, holding the coffee as if to hide behind it for a minute.  He’d seemed eager to take a sip before, but now glanced down at it as if his stomach had suddenly decided to be upset.  “You’re talking about ‘Safeguard,’ I imagine,” he guessed in a voice that cracked embarrassingly.  He took a sip of coffee despite the flips his stomach was doing, hoping that it would at least make him sound like a calm, rational adult as he had this conversation.  It had been bound to happen eventually, but he was secretly glad that it was 007 instead of some other MI6 interrogator come to ask him about his past actions.  

The agent canted his head at that, taking in the title and then connecting it far too quickly for Q’s taste to the phrase ‘ _Because I am fair_ ’ that had appeared on the computer screen in response to Bond’s voice.  If pressed, Q would say that both the name of the program and the phrase had nothing to do with the fact that this agent had kept him safe when nothing else did, but deep down he knew that would be a lie.  Q looked down into the depths of the coffee as he felt a pang of something uncomfortable go through him, as he thought about how horribly besotted he was with an agent who was heavily trained in killing, lying, and seducing. 

It was past time for him to have this conversation, even if there was nothing else on the face of the planet that he wanted to talk about less.  

“It’s okay if you regret it,” he ended up intoning with as much of a stiff upper-lip as he could manage.  The fact that he was still riding out the last effects of being drugged didn’t help much, but at least he didn’t stutter or mumble.

Bond had likely been forming a question regarding Q’s false name and his own inexplicable back-door into ‘Safeguard’ when Q’s comment blind-sided him.  “I beg your pardon?” he tried to catch up.  

Yes, this conversation was going to be just as painful as Q had thought it would be.  “You asked earlier if I remembered everything...and I do.  I have a photographic memory, which is only slightly hampered right now by the fact that I’m still somewhat under the influence and a bit...dizzy.”  He also felt nauseous, but he figured that had more to do with what he was talking about than the drugs he’d been weathering.  In all honesty, he’d have loved to escape to somewhere else and just avoid anything related to Bond and his handsome face, but it was a foregone conclusion that Q’s legs weren’t steady enough for walking yet, much less running around with an I.V. trailing out of him.  He resisted the urge to pick at the tape for the millionth time.  “So I remember you kissing me.”  The next words were the hardest to get out, and seemed to squeeze up his throat wrapped in nettles.  “It was a kind gesture.”

He could feel Bond bristling from here.  

“Q, I’m tempting to just blame his whole conversation on the drugs-”

“I’m perfectly in control of my faculties,” Q interrupted a bit more sharply than intended.  His brain was all he had, and just the intimation that it wasn’t working correctly bit deeper than knives could.  “I’m just trying to tell you something - to clear something up.”

“Well then, by all means, spit it out,” was the cold reply back, as 007 lounged back in his chair like a large, lazy cat.  His eyes were a bit too keen at the moment to match his lax pose, unfortunately, and Q wondered if the flex and twitch of his scarred fingers was for a gun.  “What is it that I’m allowed to regret?”  

Q hated that dangerously low tone, and turned his head away.  Suddenly, the smell of the coffee was making him sick, but it was the only thing he had to hide behind as he kept talking.  “Kissing me.  There in the alleyway, after I went bat-shit crazy on you.  I completely understand why you did it,” he explained with painful patience and the wandering thought that perhaps his brain wasn’t all there after all, “It was a logical decision at the time, to calm me down and make me complacent.  It makes sense, and I can appreciate that it was...”  It had felt as if someone were squeezing down on his lungs this whole time - not in the same way as the pneumonia was, although that heaviness in his chest was lifting - and now it was so unbearably tight he couldn’t get in enough air for words.  He had to put the still-full coffee-cup down against his legs because he realized how badly his hands were shaking, even though he told them not to be.  Clearing his throat painfully, he finished in an embarrassing rasp, “...The gentlest way to collect me.”  The stab of sadness he felt right through the center of his chest came without warning, but he tried to ignore it, telling himself it wasn’t sensible to be so broken up over something like this.  

It was just logical, after all.  Whenever Q’s mind had floated anywhere near the surface of consciousness, he’d been thinking this over, while also hiding from his six senses, which were going haywire because of the drugs.  Sometimes he could think even if he couldn’t stand to open his eyes, however, and he’d tirelessly gone over the last few encounters he’d had with 007, from the moment Q had escaped MI6 custody up to now.  Considering all of the facts, this seemed the most plausible explanation, even if he’d fallen for it on a level that was probably just plain shameful.  

Bond just stared at him for a whole thirty seconds, blinking with more surprise than Q had seen on the agent’s face before, and that included when Bond had found Q chatting with Tanner over the internet on his laptop.  “It’s heartbreaking that you can say that all in one go and completely without rancor,” he finally stated in a dazed tone.  Then he sat forward, expression candid as he rested his elbows on his knees and determinedly caught Q’s embarrassed eyes.  “Q, you seriously haven’t believed a word I’ve said, have you?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe what you say, 007,” Q tried to explain without making things worse, “so much as I understand that it was all for a purpose and not to-”

“Not to what?” Bond challenged, sitting too close now.  Anywhere was too close, because now that Q had got this off his chest, he felt ripped open - vulnerable.  He’d pulled the metaphorical wool from his own eyes, the veil of deception from over Bond’s actions, only to find that he felt exposed in its absence.  007 was like a dangerous element waiting in the wings, trained to be as sharp as a knife, and Q felt quite unprepared to deal with him.  

But the agent was still pressing, eyes glued on Q’s face unblinkingly, “You understand that was all not to _what_?”

“Not to actually show romantic interest in me,” Q dragged the words out in a pathetic heap of sound, and his hands and arms gave a shake so bad that he lost the cup of coffee right over the far side of the bed, and couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than stare at it.  He wanted to swear at the mess or be angry that the drugs were giving him tremors, but some vital part necessary for an emotional reaction like that had been worn out in the last few minutes.  

He didn’t have enough in him to do anything but sit with his hands quivering fitfully in his lap and eyes on the spreading puddle of coffee as he heard Bond sigh and push himself to his feet.  They needed a mop, but Bond apparently knew that there were paper-towels in the adjoining bathroom, and he was returning with a handful seconds later.  Being a 00-agent, he didn’t really clean up the mess, but he did drop enough paper-towels down to mitigate most of the damage.  “Q.  I need you to look at me.”  When two fingers touched under Q’s chin to coax it up higher, and Q flinched, 007 swore quietly under his breath.  “Easy, Q.”

“I’m not a dog, 007.”

“Stop calling me 007 and call me Bond, at least,” the agent pleaded, and this time Q let his head be lifted if only because he was humiliatingly fond of the warm, careful touch.  He figured he may as well savor this until Bond realized the gig was up and he didn’t have to act anymore.  

Q looked up with a resigned sigh, tiredly making it clear, “Fine, Bond.  I’m not going to run away from MI6 or anything, and ‘Safeguard’ was the last hack I had up my sleeve.”  ‘ _The last self-defence mechanism._ ’  “So you don’t have to pretend-”

“Fuck pretending,” growled 007, and then Bond’s hand was sliding from his chin to catch the back of Q’s jaw and pull his head forward, fitting their mouths together with more determined force than grace.  

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, look, I've got more kissing ;3 Q needed it, I figured, and 007 seemed like he'd go nuts tiptoeing around Q for much longer...
> 
> Also, if you haven't noticed, I used to write 'Mum' instead of 'Ma'am' a lot for M, but have stopped now. Just fyi


	21. Raised in Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond finally gets it through Q's head that he likes him. 
> 
> Q finally meets the rest of MI6. 
> 
> Things go surprisingly well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...ages back...I was asked about Q's past, which I had actually not thought on a lot at that point. I tentatively decided that Q was 'raised in captivity' - he actually hasn't had much life outside the drug-addicted slavery he had with Caesar. Bond finally learns that in this chapter...

Q pulled back even though he honestly didn’t want to be anywhere but sitting and kissing the agent in front of him.  “What-?” he sputtered, as shocked by the kiss as he was by the urge to ask for another, “Why-? Why did you do that?  I have no idea why you did that.”  It took a moment to realize that he was babbling the questions that were floating to the surface of his head, and he clamped his mouth shut nervously before something more intimate slipped out.  He was shuddering and completely bewildered, and he pulled back as if Bond had bitten him, even as an embarrassing little keen of want slipped up his throat - wanting something he couldn’t have.  Bond didn’t really like him, right?  After that horrid argument back at 007’s flat (which felt like millenia ago), Q had been pretty sure that his own undeniable interest in the agent was just some unfortunate, unreciprocated fancy - something _wrong_.  It had felt more wrong every time the desire had come back, clammering behind his eyes, throughout his mind, up against the walls of his thudding heart.  He’d  broken into enough MI6 files to know that 007 was an unapologetic womanizer, and that on its own had made it clear to Q that his advances were unwanted.  

Now, though, 007 had kissed _him_ \- again - with no obvious ulterior motive behind it, and Q felt as if someone had pushed him off a cliff into empty space.  

“Why did you do that?” he demanded again, pressed back against the raised head of the bed and shaking as if on detox instead of riding out the trailing edges of a high.  He couldn’t take his eyes of 007’s rugged face, couldn’t stop his own tongue from darting out to touch his lips, desperately seeking one last taste of the fleeting connection.  His heart gave another twist, like a body spinning at the end of a noose.  “You didn’t have to-”

“Well, if I didn’t have to, then the logical alternative is that I actually wanted to,” Bond chided, mouth curling up ironically at one side as he let his muscled weight lean against the bed, keeping him close but not looming.  There was still the faintest edge of irritation in his tone and eyes, but it had faded at some point during the kiss.  “Why do you find that so hard to believe?”

“Because-!”  Q tried to answer that as expansively as possible and just couldn’t.  His arms gestured fruitlessly and he closed his gawping mouth with an irked little sigh.  So far as he was concerned, there were a million reasons why he shouldn’t - couldn’t - believe that for even a second, but there was hardly time in the day to name them all.  Instead, he picked out a few highlights to drag out into the open, like foxes from their holes dug out to be torn apart by hounds.  He was shaking now as much with confusion as he was misery.  “Because of _everything_ , 007!  I’m a drug-addict, for heaven’s sakes, not to mention about as attractive as a beanpole, not to mention male.”  He got himself so worked up that something rattled loose in his lungs, and Q swore right then that he’d never, ever get pneumonia again.  Somewhere towards the end of his coughing fit, he became aware of Bond’s hand rubbing at his back, searing heat through the hacker’s thin scrub-top.  

“Well, I’ll admit that the drug addiction isn’t exactly a flattering attribute,” 007 noted in a musing tone, continuing to stand against the side of Q’s bed and run his hand up and down Q’s spine.  After his breathing eased, Q told himself to shake off the hand, but couldn’t find the will to.  Like the kiss, he desperately wanted to savor what he could get, unable to believe that the contact wouldn’t be retracted at some point.  Bond was still talking, however, and his hand shifted up until it was kneading gently at the tendons of Q’s tense neck, “I’m told that I’m a borderline alcoholic, though, so I’m not one to talk.  Plus, you don’t plan on staying an addict, do you?”

“Of course not,” Q huffed back, tipping his head and closing his eyes as 007’s clever fingers eased some of the knots around Q’s vertebrae.  It felt heavenly - enough so that he was having a hard time reminding himself that it was wrong of him to enjoy it this much.  When his mind started wondering what else Bond’s dexterous hands could do, he shut down the thought viciously, biting at the inside of his cheek until it made him wince.  Bond must have felt the flinching motion, because his hand drew back, and Q told himself that that was for the best.  “But that hardly negates the fact that I’m uninteresting, have more baggage than a loaded train, and am unattractive.”

“Q…” 007 sighed, and instead of withdrawing completely, his hand slid up the side of Q’s neck to touch his face again, this time just lightly brushing at his cheek - the one Silva had injured.  The ache was sharp, but Bond’s fingers skirted it as briefly as possible before running one thumb along Q’s nearest eyebrow.  Q held still, trying to read something in 007’s expression and wondering how he could have a genius-level I.Q. and not be able to understand the convoluted motives of one 00-agent.  “You’re probably the most interesting person I know, for better or for worse, and if you want to talk about baggage, we might be here awhile to get all of mine unpacked - the 00-division is a magnet for all kinds of scarring memories.”  Seeing that Q was tentatively listening now, and maybe even smiling the faintest bit with an ironic twist of his lips, Bond stroked once more along Q’s brow and asked in a different sort of tone entirely, “And since when did I give you the impression that I found you unattractive?”

Although it should have been physically impossible, Q nearly swallowed his own tongue in shock.  Blinking like a startled owl, he eventually found words and shoved them out of his mouth again, “Since...well...that is…  007, you sleep with women, and I’m pretty sure that even the male standards for beauty don’t include pale skin and a scrawny frame.”

Bond kissed him again.  The bastard, he was doing it on purpose now, knowing how it threw all of Q’s arguments into disarray, while also having the side-effect of shutting him up.  This time Q had time to also note that 007 was smirking faintly when he did it, well aware that he was being a cad now.  Q melted into the kiss anyway, with a needy little sound that made his chest surge with pain, because he was giving away just how much he wanted this.  

Weren’t 00-agent trained to go for weaknesses?  Q had just presented Bond with his on a silver platter.  

“Q?”  Bond had pulled back and sounded concerned, and Q couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and look at his face.  Fingers were touching his cheek, the uninjured side of his face this time.  “Q, what’s wrong?”  Callouses traced the apologetic, tentative trails of tears that had started slipping past Q’s lashes against his will.  

“What’s wrong is that I’m obviously as transparent as glass.”

“And how is that wrong?”

“Because...because I have feelings for you and you obviously know it, and there’s nothing I can do about it if you want me to dance to whatever fucked up tune you want, so just leave me alone.”  Anger briefly twisted Q’s tone, making it ugly, but somehow that also made the tears fall faster, and Q bared his teeth in silent fury at them.  Sometimes, he wished he’d never met the agent with the ice-blue eyes and the short blonde hair, but had just been left with Caesar instead.  

“I can’t do that, Q,” returned 007’s low rumble, and Q almost opened his eyes - almost - to glare at that cerulean gaze.  

“Sure you can,” he bit out instead, tone sharp and dry even though his voice sounded a bit choked-up and wet, “Just turned around, take a few steps - just don’t step in the spilled coffee on your way out.  A  brilliant agent like yourself should be able to do that.”

This time when Bond touched him, Q flinched and tried to pull as far away as possible, knowing that he was just a few soft caresses away from losing his bloody mind, but 007 just curled his palm around the back of Q’s head and pulled him close.  Q braced himself for the hailstorm of emotions that would come with another kiss to his lips, but it never came: instead, he felt the agent’s mouth pressed to the crown of his head, breath fanning in a slow, warm sigh against his hair.  After that, 007 just stayed closer, leaning into Q’s space like a tree that had grown into another while he continued to cradle Q’s skull gently in a hand usually used for killing.  

“I don’t want to leave, Q,” 007 in a voice that startled Q to the core.  It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t cock-sure and suave.  It was rasping, rough, raw, open - cracked and moth-eaten around the edges.  It was soft and full of something that made Q feel less threatened, because the voice was definitely not threatening.  Actually, for the first time, Bond sounded as open and sincere as Q was being, and Q held his breath as if not wanting to frighten the sound away.  007’s hand shifted, stroking up and down and ruffling the hair at the back of Q’s head in an almost absent gesture, while Bond also crowded the two of them a bit closer.  It was awkward, with Bond standing next to the hospital bed and the railing in the way, but when Q’s shoulder nudged against the larger man’s torso, James seemed to relax.  He continued to press his face against the top of Q’s head, breathing him in.  “What do you want me to say, Q?”

The silence that followed was stunning, and Q was pretty sure that his brain had entirely shut off for a moment.  It took quite a lot of effort to wrench it back into working order again.  “I think I need you to tell me I’m not dreaming,” Q murmured in shock, unsure what else to say himself, “because there is no way this is happening.”

Bond chuckled, a sound that managed somehow to communicate relief even as another unselfconscious kiss was pressed into his hair.  The gesture wasn’t as intimate as the other kisses 007 had given him, but somehow this sank in more - instead of being a bolt of light to shock Q into belief, this was a steady heat to brand the truth into him.  Besides, Q had read lots of reports about 007 sleeping with targets to seduce them, but he couldn’t recall any time when the 00-agent had simply stood and held someone as if they were precious.  “Do you often get romantic overtures from 00-agents in your dreams?” the blonde man teased gently now, regaining some of his good humor and perhaps some of that impishness that made M want to shoot him sometimes.

“No, but I see them get shot in the chest and die sometimes,” Q admitted with a new kind of pain flexing in his chest.  He winced as he heard the words fall out of his mouth, finishing, “I didn’t mean to say that.  Shit.”

Bond pulled back, but when their eyes met, 007 had more of a wondering expression than a disturbed or offended one.  007’s brows were lowered as he suddenly guessed, “That night you came up to me - you kept pressing a hand against my chest, and you were just about in a panic attack even though you were asleep.”

Q flushed, but tipped a shoulder.  “I don’t remember, but it seems like something I would do.  I remember the nightmare clearly enough, though.”  All too clearly…

“You had that dream...once  before, didn’t you?” 007 guessed.  Q startled when Bond’s hand lowered to his shoulder, rubbing in a gesture that Q figured would be common to someone trying to soothe a partner.  Clearly, it hadn’t sunk in yet for the hacker that Bond thought of him as partner material.  “You slept-walked rather a lot, and didn’t settle down until you had an ear or a hand pressed over my heart,” Bond explained, adding with a cheeky grin before Q could apologize, “Not that I minded.  Your sleeping self is remarkably polite and friendly.  You seem to forget how to snark when you’re like that.”

Q snorted despite himself, still feeling acutely vulnerable and embarrassed when reminded just how little control he had over himself when he was out cold.  The smile on 007’s face and the continued rubbing and kneading of his fingertips against Q’s pointed shoulder were doing wonders to convince the smaller man that he truly wasn’t being blamed for his nocturnal activities.  In fact, sneaking a glance up at 007’s face, it looked suspiciously as if Bond enjoyed the fact that Q sleep-cuddled.  “Should I be worried that you like me better asleep than awake?” he deadpanned.  

“Oh, maybe some traits, yes,” James pretended to think it over, considering, “But you’re definitely not as smart when you’re asleep, and your wit is one of the things I like most about you.”  Q flushed with warm and unexpected pride even before 007 tilted his head up and pressed his lips to Q’s temple with a possessive, pleased sort of growl.  Q released a huff of happy air back, finally relaxing.  

A nurse came in some time later, looking unsurprised to find 007 again lounging in the visitor’s chair but slightly troubled at the paper towels still sopping up spilt coffee on the floor.  Q mumbled a few embarrassed apologies, but instead of being lectured or glared at for making a mess, the nurse cleaned up the mess and then returned - this time with two cups of coffee.  Bond flashed her his most charming grin (enough to make her blush to her ears), and Q found himself rolling his eyes as if he were entitled to.  

Then again, perhaps he was.  There was finally no question about it, after all: he was infatuated with a very good-looking 00-agent who fancied him back.  

“So,” Q finally brought up after drinking enough coffee to feel moderately human and mentally able again, but still a bit giddy and nervous as he watched his blunt fingernail press patterns into the styrofoam cup, “what happens now?  I mean...what’s next?  You, for some odd reason that may have to do with a mental disorder, like me, and I obviously like you.”

Bond chose to ignore the comment about a mental condition, but his eyes did glint as if he were secretly amused.  A smile was doing a poor job of hiding at the corner of his mouth.  “That’s up to you, Q.  What do you want to happen?”

“How am I supposed to know!?” Q threw his hands up in exasperation, yipping when he tugged at the I.V.  He glared at the needle and tubing as if personally affronted before sighing and admitting, because he’d lost all attempt as self-respect already, “I only figured out I was gay since meeting you, and you may as well know that dating has never precisely been my thing even before that.”

One eyebrow rose up on 007’s face, genuinely intrigued.  “Have you ever dated _anyone_ before?”

After a long pause in which he looked anywhere but at the man sharing the room with him, Q admitted softly, “No.  I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in my early years...and then I was with Caesar, and…”  He shrugged helplessly, knowing no other way to put it, but figuring that that pretty much summed up his nonexistent social life.  If James didn’t already think he was too pathetic to live, this would definitely convince him of that.  

Bond’s features were tense in that way they got when he was controlling some intense emotion; from the tic in his jaw, probably a negative emotion.  “Are you saying that Caesar kept you addicted for _years_?” he asked, slow and low like a storm breaking in the distance.

“I believe the term ‘raised in captivity’ might apply,” Q tried to make light of it, if only to prevent 007 from blowing up - the man was a tense as a bowstring drawn too taut - “Caesar saw my potential early on, and when he realized I wouldn’t be bought, well...he found other methods.  So...  James?”

“Yes?”  The agent’s tone was still razor-sharp around the edges, and his shoulder muscles were knotted as if he wanted to strangle someone.  From the look in his eyes, he was thinking of Caesar’s dead body, and reflecting that it wasn’t near dead enough.  Still, he managed to switch his attention over to Q when he heard the softly beseeching tone.  

Q drew himself up, pulling together what little pride he had - which wasn’t much, after what he’d admitted, after what he’d survived and lived through - and sitting up straight.  He managed to keep his face calm and steady, his back straight, and something danced across 007’s eyes as their gazes met.  “I want you to know that I never planned on being an addict.  I didn’t choose it.  Ever.  No matter what anyone ever tells you, I want you to know that.”

For a moment, Bond just stared at him, gaze an unreadable  but clear crystal blue.  Then he nodded, and it was a deep sort of nod that conveyed more respect that Q had been expecting, enough to make him hold his breath.  What made his heart stutter was what Bond said, in a tone totally devoid of teasing, “Understood, Quartermaster.”

~^~

The road to recovery was long and possibly worse than anything Q could remember, but maybe that was just because it was so much awful piled into one condensed time-frame: first, he was overcoming pneumonia and a fractured cheekbone as well as general malnutrition, and then he was going through detox in which the ‘anti-drug’ made him sicker than a dog.  

Bond was there for some, but not all, of it.  In the end, Q was glad for that.  “Bond, you may have gotten it into your head that you like me, but people are at their least attractive when vomiting, so I’d rather save what dignity I have.  Go.”  Despite Q’s assurances that puking was gross and horrible, 007 stuck around long enough after that particularly command to rub the back of his new Quartermaster’s neck and kiss his ear.  Q was both too wrung out and too flattered to shove him away or hurry him out the door.  

Once 007 was back out on missions, Q began to get visitors.  

“No one visited you before,” said a confident woman with a quick smile and knowing eyes that Q came to know as Moneypenny, “because 007 had put out a general hit on anyone who entered this room without a medical license.  Even some of the orderlies were terrified.”

Q had groaned, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.  “That man is going to be the death of me…” he muttered, ignoring the fact that 007 was generally the opposite, having saved his life on several occasions now - or, at least, saved him from himself.  

Eve’s chuckle was surprisingly low and musical, and while Q was still extremely self-conscious about being the underfed drug-addict that had been dragged into MI6 by a stubborn 00-agent, he found himself smiling ruefully back.  “Considering that we’re talking about 007, that’s a common sentiment,” Eve assured him with her dark eyes twinkling mischievously.  Then she canted her head, asking, “How did you get him wrapped around your finger like that?  The only other time he’s put out a hit on people has been on missions or because a coworker spilled hot coffee on one of his suits.”

“I...er…”  Q sat back in bed a bit, unsure how he could...or should...answer.  He was _pretty_ sure that he and Bond were dating (a word that sounded strange and odd even in his head), but he didn’t know the protocol.  Was he supposed to talk about it?  Should he act flattered, or embarrassed, or smug?  Because honestly, what he mostly still felt was a mixture of shock and disbelief that only went away when 007 was actively touching or smiling at him, because that made it rather impossible to ignore that the man indeed liked him.  For a man trained to lie and coldly kill people, 007 was doing a wonderful job of being open and affectionate... which was good, because Q was still barely treading water in this whole situation.  Happy that Bond didn’t hate him or think he was a freak, but still. 

“Q?”  Eve had still been watching him, her expression vacillating between motherly worry and amusement.  

“I guess he just doesn’t want me to shut down MI6 again,” he finally shrugged it off with a nervous noise that might have, at one point in his throat, been a chuckle.  He tried on a brittle smile, feeling his way through the conversation and hoping that Miss Moneypenny truly was as nice as she appeared to be.  If not, he knew from the files he broken into that she had more than enough training to kill him.  

She was smiling that knowing smile again, her nose wrinkling slightly as she prodded in a teasing tone, “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be the only back-door to your hacks.  Mind telling me why you left that little loophole in your evil take-over, Mr. Q?  A loophole named ‘James Bond’?”

“First off, it’s just ‘Q’...and it wasn’t an evil take-over,” Q puffed up a bit, affronted but not quite intimidated.  Eve’s smile was somehow reassuring even though it was poking at some rather raw topics.  “And is it so hard to believe that I left that back-door so that MI6 wouldn’t be incapacitated for weeks?!  I don’t know how many ways I can tell people,” he finished in exasperation, glad that he was no longer stuck to an I.V., because it meant he could gesture broadly in annoyance, “I’m not an enemy of MI6.  I just...sort of hacked into it a few times.  That sounded way better in my head…”

Somehow, Q’s pathetic attempts at defending himself must endeared him to Moneypenny, because the woman ended up leaving while still laughing, and had even promised to visit again - and bring real tea, instead of the horrible stuff that passed for coffee down in Medical.  He counted this as a tentative win, especially since he hadn’t been forced to define exactly what he was going to do with a 00-agent for a boyfriend.  

Of course, as soon as Tanner came in to visit, he found out that Eve was perfectly aware of what was going on, but had just been too polite to mention on their first meeting.  Apparently Eve, M, and Tanner had all been privy to the panicked heart-to-heart that had occurred when Q had gone rogue and 007 had caught him and then brought him in via an ambulance.  Q wondered if it were possible to die of mortification in the middle of Medical.  

That worst of his little interviews/meetings weren’t over yet, sadly, because as soon as Q stopped getting sick at the drop of a hat, M finally came to see him.  The hacker acutely felt the absence of 007 at his side, and felt a flush of fear as his mind immediately went back to when he’d last seen the woman - with Raoul Silva in vicious attendance.  

“Q,” M greeted shortly as she came in, primly taking the seat that Bond usually sprawled in, “Or should I call you Quintus?”  

The referral to the fake name that Q had given to set off his virus didn’t exactly start the conversation off on a good note, and Q shifted uncomfortably.  “It’s Quinten, actually.  Quinten Smith.  But Q works just fine,” he replied meekly, “I don’t suppose that a heartfelt apology will make up for the repercussions of that fake name?”

“I didn’t come here for an apology, Q,” M said, and while her voice was a curt as ever, it wasn’t as sharp as Q had been expecting, and he relaxed minutely and became hopefully that he wasn’t going to be physically or verbally eviscerated.  “I came here to check on my incoming Quartermaster.  Do you still feel up for the job?”

“N-No,” Q answered slowly, confused, “But I was under the impression that it wasn’t optional, so I suppose I’m prepared to take the position anyway.”

“Good,” M replied  briskly, “because there was an option - incarceration.  I’m glad you’ve decided that working with MI6 instead of against it is more profitable, because I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with an emotionally immature 00-agent when I took you away.  007 attaches to people...rarely.  So I’m going to leave it largely unsaid that I have ulterior motives for keeping you on at MI6.”

Blinking in perplexity, Q wondered if this was the MI6 equivalent of the ‘hurt my child’s feelings and I’ll hurt you’ talk, or the ‘you dump him I’ll dump you off a cliff’ talk.  It was hard to tell with M…  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Q nonetheless agreed solemnly.  

M dipped her chin sharply, as if expecting no less.  “That being said, the biggest reason I am taking you on as my new Quartermaster is that you are the most qualified man for the job.  Medical tells me you will be released in two more days.”

“Two more-?!”  Even Q hadn’t known that, and he sat up straighter, startled.  “That soon?”  Just earlier today he’d been evicting just about anything stronger than water that entered his stomach, and he still felt weak and woozy - he didn’t feel any urge to start begging for a hit, however, a sign that the treatment was weaning him off the drugs he’d been hooked on for so long.  

“Yes, two days.  By that time, I expect you to already be started.  Tomorrow I’ll send in R to meet you, as well as anyone else of influence in Q-branch.  They’ve been without a proper Quartermaster for sometime now, and have figured out a sort of hierarchy that you’ll need to be able to handle the moment you step into Q-branch.  R has agreed to help with the transition, as well as S and V.”  Taking in Q’s slightly overwhelmed expression, M’s mouth twitched upwards ever-so-slightly in what might have been a frosted version of a smile.  “You’ll be meeting quite a few ‘letters’ in the next few days...Q.”

For the first time, it sounded like a title rather than a nickname, and Q felt the same little shiver of energy go up his spine that he’d felt when Bond had called him ‘Quartermaster’.  He still wasn’t sure if that shiver was of fear or something else, but the hacker firmed his jaw and nodded sharply, indicating his willingness to take this challenge head-on.  

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the most delightful comment just as I was starting to write this chapter - someone had drawn me some fanart!! *jumps up and down* I was given permission to show the rest of you, so I definitely recommend heading here and taking a peak at dear, timid-Q:
> 
> http://kurobook.tumblr.com/post/89505740673/q-and-honey-fanart-for-the-hand-that-holds-the
> 
> A million thanks to Kurobook for this!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> Also - who's ready for Silva to come back? *wicked gin*


	22. Quartermaster's Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is settled in as Quartermaster. Some of that 'settling in' is done by Bond... (~.^)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter is plot...the rest is fluff...because Q needs is, and I firmly believe that 007 is a sexual being...
> 
> Also - if you notice any mistakes in grammar/spelling that I have missed, please let me know!

Q was pretty sure that he was going insane, or had died and ended up in an alternate dimension.  Not only was he being rewarded for hacking MI6 by getting a job there, but he was working closely with three other techies called R, S, and V (and for some reason, no P, because the humor in this place only went so far when it came to alphabetical titles).  R and S were both women and V was a compact little man - and all three of them had received enough self-defense training that Q didn’t feel completely vulnerable as he was thrown into his new work-place amidst people who knew him as the man who blacked out MI6 twice.  

Not surprisingly, he got some hostile glares for a few days, which didn’t help his lingering nausea.  

Stubbornly, however, the hacker stuck to it, refusing to retreat whimpering back to Medical as his stomached cramped and flipped with fear and worry.  R, S, and/or V were almost constantly by his side, and must have been given quite a talk by M, because they actually supported him.  “It’s not that we’ve been threatened to be nice,” V said at one point, chewing on the end of a pen musingly while they all got a few things moved into Q’s new office, “It’s that we’ve seen what you can do, and this Branch hasn’t seen someone of your skill in years - possibly ever.”  

“The advantages to having you outweigh the risk of you going darkside,” S shrugged, her petite frame making the motion reminiscent of some sort of sparrow ruffling its feathers delicately.  

“I’m not going to go darkside,” Q rushed to assure them, but they just shrugged and waved it off, seeming to believe him before he even opened his mouth.  Perhaps wearing glasses and being about as athletic as a cactus helped in situations like this, where it paid to be unthreatening…  

Before long, Q was elbows-deep in his work.  The rest of Q-branch began to fall in line surprisingly quickly, as R had assured him it would - most of the techies were very smart by also very timid, and had been yearning for a strong hand at the wheel for ages.  Q’s hand wasn’t very strong, he argued, but then he found himself giving orders...and people actually jumped to attention and followed them.

The real test came when 009 got into a fix on a mission, and Q went from fixing and designing tech to yelling through a headset at a full-grown man who was in deep trouble.  Q was unused to having so many computers and screens at his disposal, but it came naturally to bring up maps and blueprints and traffic cameras all around him as he ordered his underlings to hunt for more information on the group presently chasing 009.  It should have been a terrifying exercise, but Q found that it was actually easier and less stressful than when he’d broken out of MI6 and run from Bond when he’d thought everyone was out to get him.  “I cut my teeth on 007,” he actually found himself saying dryly when 009 started questioning his orders, “I think that I can effectively direct you out of a building full of second-rate smugglers.  Turn left at the next doorway, please.”

009 snarled and complained, saying that Q sounded like some kid just out of uni, but he complied with all of his new Quartermaster’s orders - because when he turned the way Q wanted, he got shot at less, and damn if that wasn’t the best motivator for a 00-agent.  Q didn’t realize that he had an audience for this.  He was so wrapped up in just keeping the agent alive and the mission intact that he completely missed M entering the room, where she watched silently from the very outskirts of Q-branch.  

She must have liked what she saw, because she left again - still without commenting - once 009 was out of danger and a flustered by determined Q was organizing a plane to get the man back on British soil.  R noticed the entrance and exit of the head of MI6, but besides breathing a sigh of relief when the imperious woman left, made no response.  Q had passed yet another test - perhaps the most important one, proving that he could be trusted with MI6’s best agents.  

After that, of course, there was much cheering and congratulating, because Q-branch itself was as proud of the job they’d done as Q himself was - they’d grown used to analyzing old data, detached from the situation, or simply building tech for agents to take out, use, and more often than not destroy.  Their unconventional new Quartermaster, however, had dragged them into the thick of the mission.  For once, they hadn’t been just shadows in the background, but had been able to _tell_ that they were making a difference and keeping an agent alive.  

Q won over a lot of followers that day.  

As soon as he could, though, he escaped the excited celebrating, a cold sweat between his shoulderblades and the noise of the room too much.  Mumbling excuses, he more or less escaped to his office, stumbling in and collapsing onto the little-used chair across from his desk.  He lowered his head down to his hands, trying to steady his breathing and his nerves before he ended up vomiting.  It was like coming down from the drug all over again: he was shaking and nauseous, even though logically he knew that he’d won this round.  The agent was alive, the mission was intact, and he’d done everything right.  Unfortunately, he could think vividly of about a million ways that it could have gotten wrong, and suddenly the thought of 009’s blood on his hands felt a lot like 007’s…

“Shutting the door is often a good idea,” came the voice of 007 himself, as if summoned by the thought.  Q hadn’t even realized that he was back in the country, he’d been so busy trying not to mess up as Quartermaster.  He twisted around, even as the larger man stepped in and shut the door, also moving the flick the blinds closed.  It made the room very dim, because Q hadn’t even spared time to hit the light switch, and neither did Bond.  

“So…” Q swallowed a few times, trying to sound normal, “Your mission went well then?”

“It was boring as hell,” stated the agent candidly, as he circled back from closing the blinds.  As he closed in on Q again, he slowed his pace a little, no doubt aware of how the new Quartermaster was holding onto his calmness by thin threads.  Therefore, the gentler, lower tone was welcome as the blonde agent smiled and offered, “Good job with 009.  He’s an utter prat sometimes, but I hear you got him to listen to you.”

Q let out a huff of air, sagging forward.  In a bereaved sort of tone, he asked, “You already know about that?”

“Come on, Q,” murmured the older man, stepping forward so that he could run fingers through Q’s unruly hair.  The gesture made Q stiffen at first, but then he reminded himself that he was...technically dating this man.  From what little he knew of relationships, what 007 was doing was totally normal.  Unsure what was expected of him in return, Q simply tilted his head as calloused fingers ran against his scalp, leaving little shivers in their wake.  “You talk as if you made 009 walk the plank when you actually saved his life!”

“I nearly walked him off a metaphorical plank a few times,” Q moaned, pulling his glasses off briefly to rub at his eyes, then laughing a bit hysterically, “ A few of those times might even have been on purpose, because he was so bloody _stubborn_!”

“Comes with the territory,” the agent replied offhandedly, with a hint of a smirk in his tone as he took up residence next to Q’s chair, still keeping contact with his hand.  Now it just rested on Q’s shoulder, idly kneading at the tense muscles between neck and shoulder.  There was a moment where 007 was silent and Q tried to regain his equilibrium a bit more before Bond got down to business, “I was just checking back in, and M instructed me to take you home after I got my kit turned in.  Considering that my kit is entirely at the bottom of a lake...”  Bond’s mouth twisted down in a wince, but that was the only sign of embarrassment he showed even as Q lifted his head with a scandalized glare, offended on the tech’s behalf.  “I’m ready to leave as soon as you are.”

“Where are we going?”  Q was too stressed and wrung-out to properly get mad about Bond destroying things that were now _Q’s_ responsibility.  He had a feeling he’d be getting mad at 007 a lot in the future, if he survived as Quartermaster long enough.  Now, however, he only had the energy to slip his glasses back on and slump forward with his elbows barely propped on his knees.  He took comfort in the hand that continued to play near the collar of his shirt, treading the line between friendly and intimate without Bond seeming to notice.  

“Well, seeing as you don’t have a flat, we’ll be going to my place,” the older man replied cheekily, and was grinning even while Q’s gaze flew up in surprise.  “The other option was having you go home with Tanner to safekeeping, but you and I both know that you don’t always think much of Tanner’s wit.”  It was totally unfair that 007 still remembered that anonymous, online chat-fight that Q had gotten into with Tanner.  “Besides, I appreciate your habit of sleepwalking much more.”

“The sleepwalking might have been a fluke - because I was sick!” Q protested logically, even as he was tugged from his chair onto his feet.  He got an eye-roll from the agent.  “The threat of my walking about in a semi-conscious fashion is not an adequate reason for you to take sole responsibility for me!”

“Well, then how about the fact that I appreciate everything else about you?” Bond surprised him by saying, catching Q’s elbows while the two of them were still close, nearly brushing at chest and hip.  Bond’s blue eyes met Q’s surprised hazel ones for a moment, and then slipped purposefully down to his mouth, considering it while calloused thumbs rubbed little circles on the sensitive insides of Q’s elbows, warm through his sleeves.

Q had to swallow twice, locking his own eyes on Bond’s collarbone, although even that was strangely alluring at this moment.  “Are you being…” he asked slowly, “...Intentionally seductive?”

He could almost _taste_ the Cheshire smirk wrapped around the low answer, “Yes.”

“Bugger.”

~^~

Bond didn’t really tone down the sexual edge to his tone the whole way home, although the way James drove was enough distraction to keep Q from blushing for most of the ride.  Somehow, even in the tight London traffic, the agent managed to drive like a man without fear, testing the speed limit at every little occasion and smiling happily the whole time.  On a few sharp turns, Q panicked enough to reach outwards and grab the door-frame with one hand and the agent’s shoulder with the other, tightly enough that bruises would likely form.  Q was quite sure that those turns were taken on purpose, a suspicion heightened by the fact that Bond sometimes laughed as well as grinned as his manic driving nearly gave Q heart-attack after heart-attack.

When they finally arrived at 007’s flat, Q more or less ejected himself from the car, stumbling away up the curb before rounding on the vehicle.  “I am never getting in a car with you again!  If I have to ride public transportation for the rest of my life, I’m never partaking in an outing with you behind the wheel.”

Grinning crookedly and with all the charm of a misbehaving dog, 007 emerged more smoothly from his side of the car, clearly unruffled.  “I bet I can make you change your mind,” he challenged, blue eyes glinting.

Q glared.  “No.  Enough of you - _inside_.  I can’t even stand to look at you, that car, and your blasted grin.”  The new Quartermaster turned on his heel and stomped to the door with as much dignity as he could muster with his limbs trembling, and he stubbornly ignored the chuckling coming from behind him.  Making some comment about Q getting far bossier since his promotion, the agent slid up behind Q, not giving him time to slip out of the way before simply reaching past him to unlock the door.  The closeness of the larger man was like having the sun at his back despite the cloudy day, and for a moment, both froze.  

“Problem, Quartermaster?” Bond asked in his ear, rough and soft all at once.  

“N…”  That was all that would come out for a second, but the hacker managed to give his head a little shake and then get his words together, albeit breathily, “No problem.  Just not used to opening a door being an intimate exercise.”  

That earned him another chuckle, and Q’s breath caught as he felt Bond’s muscles shifting subtly behind him when the man finally opened the door and pushed it forward, crowding Q in ahead of him and never truly regaining personal space until it was closed again.  Then, both of them seemed to relax, back in familiar territory again.  Q glanced around, releasing tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding cradled between his shoulder-blades.  “It feels like it’s been years since I was here, but it’s only been weeks, hasn’t it?”

“If it helps, I haven’t been home in nearly as long,” 007’s voice drifted from the kitchen, “There’s bound to be dust, just so you know.”  

Instead of looking around for said dust, Q toed off his shoes and removed his coat, trying to feel and home and comfortable.  He reminded himself that he’d  been walking about this place barefoot and in pajamas before (pajamas that belonged to Bond, no less), but still didn’t feel right until he was in the same room as the other man again.  “So...now what?” he had to ask.  

Bond turned from where he’s been searching in his cupboards, leaning back against the counter to face Q with one raised brow and perhaps the edges of a cheeky smile about his face.  “Supper?”

“I...er...yes, but…”  Q blinked, thoughts momentarily derailed by the utter domesticity of things suddenly.  He was quite sure that Bond was being purposefully obtuse, so Q barreled onwards with no further comment on food, “But no - I meant...us.”  He gestured vaguely and a little wildly between them, and wondered if he could possibly appear any more panicked or insecure.  He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.  “In case it wasn’t utterly clear already, I know abso-bloody-lutely nothing about what two people do in a relationship.  So either you tell me, or I’m going to start Googling things, and that never ends well.”

Bond snorted a laugh, but instead of becoming distracted he seemed to get more focused.  His lips quirked up just faintly at the edges as he settled his weight back a bit more and crossed his arms, head canted.  “Let’s start somewhere simple then,” he proposed, in that musing tone as if he’d mulled the idea over carefully before voicing it.  Then he surprised Q by asking quite openly, “What do you like?”

“That…” Q blinked, feeling as if this was a day in which he was doomed to be perpetually off-balance, “...Doesn’t seem like a very helpful question.  How many times to I have to say that I know nothing-!”

“Of course it’s a helpful question,” Bond overrode him calmly, untroubled by the rising edge of hysteria in Q’s voice, or the way he was swinging his arms around again.  “Relationships are basically built around people doing things that they mutually like.”  He smirked and added in a huskier tone, “Sometimes to each other.”

Q felt his face heat up.  He tried to stammer a response but found that his words weren’t working, or his brain at least had somehow lost contact with his tongue.  Then Bond pushed forward off the counter with a roll of his torso, and Q _really_ forgot what he’d been thinking.  Stride purposeful and controlled, the 00-agent walked right up to him, so that Bond’s still-crossed arms brushed Q’s chest, radiating warmth.  “So, what do you like, Q?”  

Since his only real defense mechanism when not near a computer was to make dry comments, Q wildly tried to find a safe place to keep his eyes when his vision was filled with James, and retorted, “You’d have to ask my sleepwalking self.  My waking self barely knew it even liked you until recently.”

Predictably, 007 just rolled with that, expression still slightly mischievous but getting more intently interested by the moment.  “Okay then.  Prolonged physical contact then.”  When Q’s eyes widened - he was _really_ going to have to sit down and be told exactly what he’d done every time he’d walked around at night - 007’s blue eyes glinted with less playfulness and more heat.  Q found himself staring when all Bond did was unfold his arms, because 007 was radiating the same sense of _intent_ that he did when given a task or given a gun.  “And how about this?” the agent suggested, before a large hand came up, knuckles sliding along Q’s jaw and making his breath catch, eventually cupping the side of his face and urging his head forward.  This time, Q was ready for the kiss, and made the little move forward so that he was actually the one to initiate it.  Bond’s rumble of approval shot right through his chest.  

Clearly, Bond was experimenting now, because for the first time, Q felt a tongue lapping at the seam of his lips, a gentle prodding that distracted the Quartermaster from the way both of Bond’s thumbs were now rubbing softly at the edge of his jaw.  “I do…” Q panted when their lips parted, Bond keeping close while Q’s eyes blinked hazily open, “I do appear to like this.”

“Good,” came the pleased murmur, “See?  You’re already quite good at this relationship business.  How about this?”  Bond was evidently enjoying explaining relationships to Q, because he dove back in quite quickly, and this time nipped at Q’s lower lip to get him to gasp in surprise.  Taking advantage of the opening, Bond skillfully deepened the kiss.  Before Q knew it, he was being backed up until his shoulder-blades bumped against the refrigerator, Bond’s weight a solid presence against his front, although the larger man was holding himself back enough not to be smothering.  What was infuriating was that Bond didn’t appear to be even breathing heavily by the time he pulled back again, whereas Q was pretty sure he already looked thoroughly dazed and debauched.  “If this is all there is to dating,” Q managed to breathe, “I could get used to it.”  

When Bond chuckled, it was a lovely thing, especially with the man so close that the sound vibrated between them while the smile curled Bond’s lips back away from his teeth just a fraction.  “The other aspects of relationships I’m not good at,” the agent admitted without any notable hesitancy, “So you might regret being stuck with me.  I sleep with people more than I actually date them.”  He shifted his weight so that his forearms were braced against the stainless steel on either side of Q’s shoulders, muscles rolling and flexing as he made himself comfortable like that.

“Technically, you’ve already slept with me,” Q raised a finger and pointed out.  With the minimal space in between them, even that motion was awkward...but when 007 just smiled indulgently and didn’t seem to mind, Q turned his index finger to hesitantly touch the corner of Bond’s mouth.  This, somehow, made the Quartermaster shiver more than the kiss had, if only because it was _all_ his idea.  The rest of his fingers carefully unfurled against Bond’s chin, feeling faint stubble and warm skin.  It felt odd and strangely breathtaking to realize that he was _allowed_ to do this.  

Encouraged, even: Bond nuzzled his mouth against Q’s fingertips with another low sound of pleasure and hot breath.  

“Well, it’s good to know that we’ll both likely mess this thing up together,” Q breathed in a little laugh, but instead of being discouraged, Bond’s grin appeared again beneath Q’s curious fingertips.  Setting his teeth delicately to the pad of one finger - earning him a gasp from his new Quartermaster - Bond teased a moment before surging forward with a flexing of his frame to lay open-mouthed kisses on the side of Q’s neck.  

Periodically, Bond would stop, asking in a lazy and sated tone whether Q liked this or that.  It was a rather twisted attempt at asking for consent, but when combined with the admirable amount of restraint 007 was showing, it served its purpose.  Besides, Q had yet to find anything he wasn’t liking, as his nerves quivered with the utter knowledge that James really _did_ want him.  Quite a lot, in fact, if his skilled mouth and possessive hands were any indicator.  Being wanted - wanted, but not used - was a new experience for Q, and he was shocked by how it made happiness swell unbearably in his chest.  

“Q?”  Bond’s voice was gentle.  Somehow, the two of them were still standing, although 007’s hand had long since been plastered against Q’s back, a layer between him and the refrigerator.  Now, though, both of them had stopped moving and were just standing together, Bond’s arms loosely about him.  “You all right, Q?”

It took a moment to realize that his face was wet, dampness streaking down his cheeks from his eyes.  Q lifted a hand and pushed up his glasses, rubbing almost angrily at his eyes.  “I’m not crying,” he declared, voice a bit rough, “I’m not.  This is silly…”

“Shhhh, Q,” soothed Bond’s familiar voice, and when he eased the smaller man in closer, it was to tuck his head beneath his chin.  The agent’s voice was careful as he asked, “Was it something I did?”  

One of Q’s hands was still wrapped around 007’s ribcage, where he’d been digging his fingers into the rippling planes of the man’s back - now, it let him feel the wary tension as Bond talked.  Q nearly choked on a laugh.  “No - no, that’s not it.  I’m happy.  But apparently I’m also tired, stressed, and emotional, because I’m acting more like some sad _sap_!”

He felt 007 relax under his hands, the sigh almost unnoticeable against his head.  “Well, if it helps, tired and stressed is considered normal for a Quartermaster of MI6 - so this is just another example of how you’re doing quite well, actually,” Bond informed him helpfully.  Q snorted and resisted the urge to swat him, because Bond was all muscle and bone and probably wouldn’t even feel it.  

Somehow, the two of them ended up on the couch again, and this time when Q drifted off draped on the blonde man’s chest, it was a mutually consensual arrangement.  Q had balked, of course, flushing bright red again, but when faced with Bond’s charismatic smile and amused assurances - and eventually a good tug on his wrists from a man who knew a thing or two about unbalancing an opponent - Q had ended up more or less toppling onto the agent.  He’d nearly fallen back off the couch in scrambling embarrassment, and even Bond had been hard-pressed to keep both of them balanced.  Finally, Q had just trusted that Bond had him - really _had_ him - and had relaxed tentatively.  

Q was about to apologize for squirming and making this so much more awkward, but then he noticed the relaxed look on Bond’s face, the way his eyes seemed to darken a shade as he just looked down at Q.  “What?” the Quartermaster asked uneasily, wanting to shift but not wanting to elbow the body under him.  He was already all too aware of everything about this new position, and had to honestly wonder how his sleeping self had managed this without driving 007 barmy.  

“Did you know that you’re adorable when you’re bloody nervous?”

“I should swat you.”  Q buried his head against 007’s chest in embarrassment, but arched slightly and happily as a warm hand rubbed up and down his spine; the other was braved on his waist, fingertips plucking idly at one of his belt-loops.  The hand at his back smoothed upwards until it passed the collar of his shirt, then his neck, finally ruffling his hair backwards until Bond was cupping the back of his head.  When Q obliged by looking up, 007 instantly kissed him.  “I don’t know why you keep doing that,” Q said shyly, tongue darting out inadvertently to swipe his lips after the kiss ended, “I can’t be all that good at it.”

“Yes, but I am,” Bond smirked, “and I’d kiss you and a lot more just to watch that brilliant brain of yours shut down and reboot.”  By the end, Bond’s voice had gone low and rough like the touch of his calloused fingers as they brushed Q’s cheekbone and just feathered over his eyelashes.  Bond’s eyes were on his in a fascinated sort of way, and Q blushed again, thinking that the agent could indeed see his thoughts immediately crumbling every time Bond did something like kiss him.  

Or just rub a thumb against his side where he’d managed to get his fingertips up under Q’s shirt.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied - no Silva XP But the cuddles are over - next chapter, the monsters come back to play...get ready for the grand finale, folks!
> 
>  
> 
> Again...since this fic was supposed to stop ages ago...lol


	23. I'm the Tactful One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of domestic times with Bond and Q, still figuring out the little tricks of being more than friends. 
> 
> And then everything gets a bit more complicated...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I found time to update even though I'm in another country and barely ever within reach of wifi! \\(^u^)/ Yay!!! And I honestly really like this chapter...I mean, I'm proud of most of what I do, but this I'm _more_ proud of than usual. I've got cuddly moments and I've got cringe-worthy moments, and I've also got fluff and plot!

Q awoke slowly, feeling unexpectedly warm.  Sure, there was a blanket pulled up over his back as he lazed on his front, but it was only about as high as his waist, and most of the heat was from under him…

A hand stroked in a small motion up the small of his back, callouses chasing shivers of pleasant shock up Q’s spine.  When the hacker jolted in surprise, eyes snapping open but seeing only blurs of color without his glasses, a rumbled laugh vibrated from under him.  “Easy, Q,” came Bond’s voice, but instead of being wrapped in soothing caution, it was rife with teasing amusement. 

Q tried to take stock of where he was while his memory caught up with him – slowly replaying how he’d gotten here, in his bed with a 00-agent, sometime late last night – but his nearsightedness wasn’t helping. There was cloth under his cheek and a powerful heart beating calmly beneath his ear, but his crippled vision wouldn’t even let him see Bond’s face angled down to him. Not moving otherwise until he had everything squared away in his brain, Q stretched out a hand, waggling his fingers imperiously as he demanded, “Glasses.”

Another chuckle purred against 007’s ribcage, setting off vibrations of a different kind low in Q’s belly.  “Coming right up, Quartermaster.”  Q saw a mass of colors that he knew was Bond reaching out a hand to the bed-stand, but mostly he felt the clench and slide of muscle, and couldn’t resist the urge to dig his fingers in slightly against 007’s sides.  He told himself it was because he was basically blind and off-balance, and he needed to anchor himself as Bond moved.  Yup. Totally legitimate answer.

When his glasses were back on his face, Q felt much more balanced, and his brain woke up the rest of the way, too.  Memory was a clear and comforting thing behind his eyes, showing him how he’d lazed with Bond on the couch for some hours before he’d been sure that 007’s back must be hurting from the position.  The agent had denied it, saying that he’d happily spent whole nights under Q – a particular turn of phrase that had had Q blushing furiously even while 007 just regarded him with candid, crystalline eyes.  Still, Q had felt bad about basically using the other man was a body-pillow, and had coaxed him to do something more comfortable.

‘More comfortable’ had somehow ended up with a quick, slap-dash lunch that almost didn’t happen.  Cooking was difficult (even just making tea and toast) with 007 for a distraction, although it he were being truthful, Q would say that he rather enjoyed trying to make a meal while Bond slipped kisses against his skin with the kind of sneaky, deft skill only seen in international spies.  The truly curious thing, however, was that the situation…didn’t escalate.

They’d ended up in bed, both fully clothed, and Q had fallen asleep to the gentle sounds of Bond’s breathing and the agent’s fingers curling through his hair. 

“Something bothering you, Q?” 007’s voice brought the hacker back to the present.

Truthfully, Q found himself saying to 007’s chin, “I’m just surprised that we both still have pants on.”  He hurried to add as embarrassment flashed through him, heating him from throat to ears, “Not that I’m disappointed!  It’s just that-”

“That I’m James Bond, and I rack up conquests like some people collect stamps,” 007 filled in without rancor.  Q looked up, eyes cautious, but he found a rueful smile crouched at the corner of the larger man’s mouth, blue eyes lidded.  One hand was still under Q’s shirt, but the extent of its wandering was just another leisurely stroke from the hem of Q’s trousers up to the bottom edges of his ribs.  The heat Bond radiated was still addictive, even if sex didn’t have anything to do with it right now. “So you think I must be ill or something not to have divested you of that truly awful cardigan the moment the bed came into view?”

“No, no,” Q shook his head, clumsily propping himself up over 007 without his hands slipping out on the blankets or his elbows hitting Bond’s ribs. “I’m just wondering how…frustrated you are right now.”  He found his face reddening again, and resisted the urge to look down 007’s muscular body, to see if there was any physical evidence of that ‘frustration’. Honestly, Q would have been a bit aroused and frustrated himself if this idea of dating men weren’t so new to him. So far, he’d decided that kissing James Bond was a wonderful thing, and the lazy petting of 007’s hands was something he could happily drown in – dozing on top of the man still made him feel out-of-place, but the agent seemed to love it, so Q was willing to do it. Sex, though…  “I’ve seen your files, James.  You don’t have a tendency to _just_ lie in bed with someone,” Q finished, unsure what he felt about that: guilty, nervous, apologetic? 

Bond’s hand left Q’s back, and he felt momentarily bereft until 007’s arm flexed and shifted, and the man’s fingers shortly landed again – this time on Q’s hair, playing with his hair briefly before burying in it to scratch at his scalp. Something that simple shouldn’t have felt delicious, but Q found his toes curling and his eyes closing. “True,” Bond mused, still ridiculously relaxed and at ease.  Despite having slept in his clothes, the man didn’t look anything short of stunning, even the slight disarray of his hair looking purposeful and roguish. “But that’s what I do on missions. This-”  His hand curled, slipping from Q’s hair until he possessively curled around the back of Q’s head to cup the underside of his jaw. Q strained and leaned a bit as he was drawn up into a deep, slow kiss – it was wonderful enough to be worth the pull on his spine from the new position.  Bond pulled back to keep talking, his pupil a bit wider against the pale-blue of his eyes, “-Is something I don’t get very often, and never while I’m in the field. I like ‘just lying in bed’ perhaps more than you realize.”

Blinking in surprise, Q remained propped up on Bond’s chest long enough to stair at him and be sure that the agent wasn’t yanking his chain. 007 didn’t look away, though, or even blink, and Q had to admit that the man looked to be serious. “Are you trying to tell me,” Q deadpanned, not knowing where the urge to tease came from – maybe from relief over knowing that 007 wouldn’t push him to move faster in this relationship than he was ready for, “that the infamous 007 is a secret cuddler?”

There was that poised moment when Q wondered how 007 would react to that. Was it ever truly safe to taunt a 00-agent?  From his experience with the man, Q knew that Bond _did_ have a sense of humor, but precisely how the man would react was still a guessing game.  Q held still and kept watchful while he felt 007’s muscles flex beneath him, a small jerk of surprise that was reflected on the man’s rugged features a split second before an unexpected smirk took up residence there.  “Not quite the way I’d put it,” the 00-agent chastised him, but the annoyance was utterly faked and ruined by the dancing light in Bond’s blue eyes. He punished his bedmate by digging into Q’s ribs with skillful fingers, which turned out to be just as good at tickling as they were less savory things. 

After Q cried uncle and the amusing little scuffle ended, the two men settled down again, and Q was surprised by how swiftly 007 relaxed back into his lazy sprawl again, limbs spread across the bed and eyes barely open. Q was quite awake now, but stayed where he was with his arms crossed on Bond’s chest and chin nestled on them, stretched out half across him.  It was novel, really, to be the one watching while 007 drifted in and out of a doze – usually, it had been Q sleeping, in various states of illness or health. Somehow, Q hadn’t even imagined that any 00-agent (much less one of 007’s caliber) would drop their guard enough to just sleep when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.  But here James was, eyes sliding closed and head dropping back against the pillows, the fingers of one hand trailing in Q’s hair a moment longer before falling into gentle stillness. 

Asleep, James looked younger, and made Q more fully appreciate the level of taut readiness that inhabited the agent’s body in all settings. Apparently, even when Bond was relaxing he was tense, because now he looked absolutely lax, muscles loose and handsome face at ease.  Testing his luck and hoping that he wouldn’t trigger some fight-or-flight response, Q turned his head a bit, to the hand still propped, forgotten, against his sleep-disheveled hair.  The hacker pressed his lips shyly against the tanned skin of Bond’s wrist, and was rewarded by the man’s arm twitching, eyelids fluttering half-open before settling on the smaller man.  “Q?” was the questioning murmur, and somehow, the new Quartermaster felt warm pride bloom in his chest, because 007 still didn’t seem completely awake, nor had he leapt awake prepared for danger. 

Q tipped his head into Bond’s grip as those scarred fingers began rubbing at his head again, almost before those blue eyes were focused on him. “Nothing,” Q admitted, then thought more and added, “Except, considering the hour on the clock over there, we might want to consider going back to MI6.  Or _I_ should, at least – new job and all that, I don’t want to tarnish my record this soon by being tardy.”

Smirking, Bond woke up a little bit more as he needled keenly, “Is that a gentle way of saying that _my_ record is _already_ tarnished?”

“From what stories I’ve been hearing,” Q snorted, “it’s actually muddied beyond repair.  But I’m being tactful.”

“Hmm,” was Bond’s main comment about that, eyes closing contentedly again and fingers tightening in Q’s hair to give it a tug, sending unexpectedly pleasurable spikes through Q’s scalp.  “You can be the tactful one.  I’ll be the reckless, dashing, destructive one.”

“Well,” Q pushed himself up regretfully, relishing the density of pure muscle beneath his hands for a moment as he pushed off 007’s broad chest, something that he’d never dreamed he’d ever be doing, “the reckless, dashing, destructive one is going to be late, and the tactful one is going to scrounge up some breakfast before taking the tube to MI6 headquarters.” 

~^~

Q made it out into the kitchen without giving into the temptation of lazing the day away in bed with Bond, although he’d treasured one last look back into the room, loving the sight of the agent sprawled indolently in bed. “God, but you make laziness look good,” Q murmured to himself, but Bond must have heard him, because a cheeky grin was soon pasted across his face even if his eyes didn’t open.

Cooking had never been a skill of Q’s, mainly because he’d never had the opportunity or reason to learn.  One of the upsides of being higher than a kite when he wasn’t being forced to hack something was that he didn’t get hungry much – and when he did get ravenous, he didn’t care what was put in front of him to eat.  The memory was a painful twinge in Q’s mind, and he hunched his lean shoulders against it as he repeated supper and put bread into the toaster again. Idly, as he waited, his mind went through ideas for bettering the toaster’s efficiency and toasting accuracy. Part of him probably sensed as Bond entered the kitchen, but it was honestly still quite early, and some of 007’s relaxed temperament had filled the house like a pleasant fog. Q jumped when he reached for a mug only to have a tanned, corded forearm reaching past him to do that instead; barefoot, Bond was as silent as a cat. 

Sometime between rousing himself from bed and entering the kitchen, Bond had changed – although that by no means meant he was more ready to leave the house. Yesterday’s clothes had been replaced by just sweatpants, the drawstrings barely tied and the waistline riding low. Q turned around to make some comment about Bond’s belated arrival in the kitchen only to find himself a bit tongue-tied, eyes colliding with the sight of chiseled, honed muscle under bare skin. Quite a lot of bare skin.

Noticing his effect on the hacker, one side of Bond’s mouth quirked upwards, full of mischief.  He leaned in a bit and bracketed Q in by leaning his hands on the counter to either side of Q’s hips.  “How about now? Still want to get to work on time?” he coaxed in a low murmur that carried just enough heat. 

Dragging his eyes away from defined pectoral muscles and lightly flexed abdominal muscles, Q met playful blue eyes and managed in an accusing tone, “You cad.  With behavior like this, it’s a wonder M lets you out of MI6 at all.  How do you complete missions?”

“About the same way I’m completing this mission right now,” Bond murmured, untroubled, as he leaned forward to test his teeth against the edge of Q’s ear. The air left Q’s lungs in a rush; it was naïve, he knew it, but he’d never really considered that biting could be such an erotic thing.  Still, he managed to brace his hands on Bond’s chest and push back, getting a thrill out of the contact. 

“Nope. None of that.  The tactful one of us is also the practical, prudish one,” Q maintained, although his voice got embarrassingly squeaky and he found he really didn’t want to move his hands.  Part of him was still afraid that once he did, he wouldn’t be allowed to touch again – up until recently, he hadn’t thought that he’d ever be allowed to touch _at all_.  007 didn’t move out from under his hands, however, only backing up as far as Q pushed him (and even that was grudging).

Bond listened – which was a shock – and didn’t try and distract Q anymore. Just because he stopped trying didn’t mean he ceased to be a distraction, however, because the agent was alluring when he was doing nothing more than walk around the kitchen. With all of that muscle on display, Q caught himself staring more than once, his thoughts lost in the shift and slide of a shoulder-blade as Bond reached for something, or the torsion of his torso as he left the spoon behind him and twisted to pick it up at the last minute.

“Q?”

“Yes?” was the dazed response, the hacker coming back to the present.

Although it was still pretty teasing, Bond’s eyes were surprisingly warm as he waved a hand in Q’s general direction, sipping at too-hot coffee with a little wince before noting, “You should probably change.  M forced Tanner to buy you some clothes that would fit, and now they’re living in a box in the closet.  Tanner’s got no taste in clothing, but what you’re wearing right now is…” As 007 chose his words, he flashed a smile over the rim of his mug that was positively predatory. “Wrinkled in a fashion suggestive of certain nighttime activities.” 

For what felt like the millionth time _just_ this morning, Q blushed, and he beat a quick retreat to change his clothes.

~^~

The clothing Tanner had picked up for Q was…a bit eclectic, and the tiniest bit too larger, but it fit well and Q felt fairly professional as he got back to MI6.  He had ended up taking public transportation, although Bond had offered a ride – the man had just seemed so relaxed and _right_ wondering around his own home in nothing but sweats, however, that Q hadn’t had the heart to drag the agent anywhere near MI6.  It was a pity Bond was so good at his job, because he looked stunning when he was off-duty and off-guard. 

Q also needed a bit of time to himself to come to grips with the wonderful idea that the man who had once been his keeper and self-appointed bodyguard…was now his _boyfriend_. It was such a quaint phrase for something that meant so much more to Q, and he’d spent the whole ride on the tube in thoughtful and somewhat dazed silence, something fluttering in his chest as he thought about the easy, relaxed way with which Bond addressed the foreign idea of dating.  Apparently, dating meant engaging in activities – together – that they both enjoyed, and those were pretty much the only rules of the matter that Q could find so far. It was still hard to fathom what Bond got out of the deal, but the agent seemed to deeply enjoy what Q was willing to give him so far, even if that was only inept kisses and a boring but unthreatening bedmate.  Maybe it really was a rare treat for Bond, having someone with him at night who didn’t demand anything from him and who didn’t have any designs for killing him in the morning.

Of course, beneath all of that was the clear possibility for…more. On his way through security at MI6 headquarters, Q felt a little shiver whisper up his spine as he considered for the thousandth time that he was dating a very, very experienced partner. “Good,” he muttered to himself as he resisted the urge to give into hysterics, “That should make up for my utter lack of anything _resembling_ experience.” He was indecently glad of the fact that Bond was moving slowly, nonetheless, because Q was already insecure enough about his status with the handsome agent without having to worry about embarrassing himself in bed.  Just thinking about messing this all up somehow made the hacker’s shoulders round and his heart curl in on itself somewhere deep in hi chest. 

He understood the uncertainty of a fledgling bird all of a sudden, hopping from branch to branch and flapping clumsily but avidly. The thought of flight was wondrous, so alluring that it was a physical, visceral ache, but the fear of crashing to the earth below in a pile of feathers and snapped bones was still too much of a deterrent…

Bond was a falcon, an exquisite flyer who never even had to give the ground any thought.  Q wasn’t even sure he had his metaphorical adult-feathers in, and did his best not to even _think_ right now about how high 007 could take him.  Q had had more than enough crash-landings in his life so far, thank you very much.

“Quartermaster,” R appeared to distract him the moment he reached Q-branch, “002’s target stole a car and 002 lost the scent.  He’s requesting help in locating the suspect.”

Still not used to being a part of MI6 business, Q blinked twice before giving his head an abrupt nod and straightening, composing his face into something businesslike.  “Well, let’s see if we can do something about that, shall we?  Traffic footage should be a more than adequate start…” The rest of the day was spent tracking misplaced targets, directing cornered field agents, and teaching frustrated Q-branchers how to keep up with the hacker who was now their boss.

~^~

Apparently Bond still had a mission-report to give, but was avoiding his duty with the unpleasant skill of a cheeky fox evading jaded hounds. Unavoidably, most everyone was aware of the close connection between 007 and their new Quartermaster, and that was only reinforced when M actually found Q in person to ask where MI6’s best agent was.  One look was all it took to assure Q that lying was useless, so he’d thrown Bond under the bus and told M where the man was.  The fact that Q knew Bond’s location so easily when even M hadn’t known James was at home caused some significant looks to flicker around Q-branch, and Q battled embarrassment and discomfort as he threw himself back into his work. Things had quieted down at least, and MI6 had given him free reign on designing tech as well as putting its computer systems to good use. 

One nice thing about dating a 00-agent was that Bond didn’t hover, and Q didn’t receive any nagging emails or texts demanding where he was as the hour grew late and everyone else began to go home.  Then again, Bond was capable of employing far subtly means of babysitting, so he’d likely known that Q was working late from the moment it had hit five o’clock and the first tech analysts had started clocking out. Q was reasonably certain that Bond could take stalking to a new (and yet classier) level. 

His mind pleasantly occupied by putting the finishing touches on a new gun design – an idea that had been rattling around in his head but had never had a proper outlet – Q didn’t notice that the room was nearly empty, nor did he notice when someone new entered.  A broad frame in a pale-cream suit strolled into Q-branch like a wind-born plague drifting in.

“Ahhh, if it isn’t Q….”

Instantly, the hacker was spinning around, his back protesting as he suddenly changed position from where he’d been bent slightly over one of the standing computer consuls.  The hair at his nape felt like it was on end, and it was almost dizzying how quickly adrenalin flooded his system – rushing in like a kick to his sternum.  Feeling the tall desk at his back, fingers unconsciously questing for a weapon, Q faced none other than Silva a few meters away. The larger man didn’t get any closer, instead standing his ground benignly with hands in pockets and a loose smile gaping on his face. 

Although he hadn’t been obvious about it, Q had been keeping tabs on Silva’s mission.  That was one of the reasons he was so disoriented now, because the man standing in front of him was still supposed to be busy in Russia.  Apparently Silva had gone to some lengths to leave that false impression, however, because he didn’t even look jetlagged from a last-minute flight over. 

Before Q could swallow and come up with an answer, eyes cautiously hard and bright with wariness, Silva went on smoothly, “Or should I say – Quartermaster?” He bent in a deep bow that somehow managed to convey no respect whatsoever, and his canted eyes never left Q. “Congratulations on your promotions, Q, dear,” he said as he straightened and raked Q with his eyes, making the smaller man feel as if his clothing – and maybe even his skin – were being peeled away.  “How should I put it…? Rehab suits you?”

“Mr. Silva, unless you have checked in with M your specific handlers and have a legitimate reason for being here, I must ask you to leave,” Q said, voice brittle but harder than he’d expected it to come out. He’d been prepared for his voice to shake, or even to squeak as fear tightened around his throat with spidery fingers, but apparently he’d been healing in more ways than drug addiction since Bond had finally brought him in. So instead of sounding as if he were terrified, he just sounded firm and cold, in a controlled sort of way.

The humor on Silva’s face hardened a bit, harmless water becoming jagged ice – a knife turning from the flat of the blade to the edge. “The new attitude I like slightly less,” the pale agent observed as if Q’s words didn’t affect him. The new Quartermaster’s eyes narrowed, stung by the realization that he couldn’t easily make Silva listen to him, even though that also didn’t surprise him.  He remained backed up against the desk, hand braced on it behind him even though there was no handy weapon waiting there to grab. Just his computer.

“What happened to the shy, skittish creature that I met?” Silva continued, the annoyance in his voice smoothing over instantly to a honeyed, soothing smoothness.  He also stepped closer, to the point where Q began to feel him brushing uncomfortably into his personal space – definitely within arm’s reach, a dangerous distance with an MI6 agent.  Q’s breathing picked up, but he refused to let panic show on his expression as Silva kept talking with a patronizing smile and reptilian humor in his eyes, “I’ve always found a demur personality rather irresistible, and if I’d known you were interested in men, I would have said so!  Foolish of me, not noticing – but James noticed, didn’t he?”

Q’s breath ground to a halt in his chest as Silva continued to move forward until they were a mere hand’s-width apart.  This close, Bond would have radiated heat like a furnace, a comforting fire that wrapped around Q like a blanket.  Silva instead just made Q feel sickly and a few degrees too cold, as if sickness were licking greedily at his skin. 

“What does James think about this newfound brashness of yours, Q?” Silva continued to press, the corners of his generous mouth shaping a frown to create a pitying expression, a mask of false sympathy that made Q seem like an inept student to Silva’s capable teacher.  “You’re his _pet_ now, aren’t you?”

“No, I am not,” Q articulated without raising his voice or changing his tone. His voice was made of hard, sharp angles and controlled chill, a level of pure professionalism that came to his tongue when he didn’t know what else to do.  He bit his lip against a little sound of distress as Silva lifted a hand, dragging a fingertip from the level of Q’s belt up to his chest – the stroke of a gluttonous child swiping a line of frosting off a cake. The touch was highly unwelcome, and ended with Silva going to grab Q’s chin.  The hacker jerked his head away, beginning to shake, mouth turned down sharply at the edges but his calm mask starting to fracture. “Leave, Mr. Silva,” Q ordered with the last strength of command he had.

The larger man ignored him, silently laughing in the face of Q’s new rank. He didn’t try and touch the smaller man again, but his body remained sickeningly close, and his gaze was an insult of the lewdest kind as they searched Q’s face.  The Quartermaster breathed too swiftly through his nose and kept his head turned away, but then dragged his eyes back, looking up – determined to glare.  Silva tisked.

“You were such a lovely little thing before, and I can’t believe how MI6 has ruined you.  How about you let me fix it all, hmmm?  You accepted James – why not me…?” Silva continued to insinuate even as he pressed the last few steps forward until he was in contact with Q from thighs to chest and his breath was a damp heat on Q’s face. 

Q shuddered and cringed, head turning away and eyes squeezing shut, but just when Silva smirked with triumph, the bespectacled man murmured something. “What was that, Q?” the pale agent pressed as curiosity prickled him.

“I said,” Q repeated, a bit more strongly, forcing his eyes open and somehow finding another glare – this one full of reckless brimstone. He throw it all in Silva’s face even as he said levelly, “that you’re not smart enough to tempt me, because you don’t appear to have noticed that the moment you arrived, I alerted security.” Q’s hand finally moved forward, no longer braced behind him but sliding into view – away from the keyboard where he’d been typing almost silently.  Even though he hadn’t been looking, he’d flawlessly commanded the computer, it’s screen hidden by his body until this point.  Now Silva looked over his shoulder, expression freezing with realization. Q’s eyes remained on his face, still frightened but also indomitably stubborn.  “So I repeat, Mr. Silva-”  There was the sound of a door opening nearby, at the edge of Q-branch, as people began to arrive.  “-You might want to leave now.”

For a moment, Silva’s head whipped around, a cat caught in hot water and trying to find the best way out.  He couldn’t see the people coming quite yet, and they couldn’t see him either, but he could hear them coming and someone was already calling out to the Quartermaster. Q hadn’t replied yet, the only sigh of now afraid he still was of Silva, even if he was refusing to flinch. Finally, Silva’s eyes locked on the new Quartermaster again, and something twisted hybrid of hatred and respect painted his narrowed eyes.  “Clever boy,” he mused, “Well played.  But do you really think you’ve gotten rid of me?”

“I think that you’re going to be more than slightly inconvenienced if you choose to remain here,” Q told him flatly, “and threaten me.” He took in a breath, which shook and betrayed him a bit, and added with more sincerity even though it shredded his stomach with nerves, “You may not respect my position as Quartermaster a whit, and I don’t blame you – I’m a mutt around here, and I don’t see why no one else notices – but what should matter to you is that security listens to me.”

Silva’s eyes showed his fury, letting Q know that he’d won, but before Silva gave in and beat a swift retreat, he reached out with a rough hand and grabbed Q’s chin.  The grip was like iron, and Q wasn’t a match for his strength in any case, so he couldn’t do anything but gasp in protest as he was dragged forward into a rough, bruising kiss. It wasn’t a gesture to show affection, lust, or even possession – it was just an attack.  Silva pulled back before Q could do anything more than shove at his chest, and then the man was swiftly retreating from Q-branch, leaving Q with a memory of his sly grin and a lingering taste of taint in his bruised mouth.  Shaking with aftershocks, Q leaned on hand back on the table to keep himself from just collapsing while his other hand reached up to touch his lips.  As MI6 security rushed in around him, Q pulled his hand away, seeing blood on his fingertips – a reminder of viciousness that he feared promised more to come.

Silva had disappeared from MI6 entirely by the time security did a sweep for him.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, Silva is back...let the final countdown begin, to a show-down that's been twenty-three chapters in the making. Bond's going to tear heaven down when he catches wind of this...


	24. The End Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond finds out what Silva did to Q, and things basically go downhill from there...
> 
> Because 007 very much wants Silva dead, and the Silva is more than happy to give him the opportunity. MI6 is about to become a battleground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap between updates! Apparently being a senior in college means free time is a myth...plus, I'm easily distracted by other fics. :P I had hoped to finish this up in one big, long chapter, but since that is likely to take me bloody ages...here's Part 1 
> 
> Enjoy :3

~^~

Q had given his report and his lip had been given a quick look by Medical by the time Bond arrived, if only because Q had done his best to keep word from getting to the agent.  007 was a spy, however, and information rarely stayed safe from him for long, so inevitably the man came striding into Q’s office just as M was preparing to leave – and the utter fury riding in his wake was better than any alarm heralding his arrival.

“What happened?” were the first words out of Bond’s mouth, and the energy he was radiating was definitely a far, brutal cry from the calm, lax aura he’d been cloaked in this morning.  Q winced partially from the continued throb of his lip but mostly in regret for the peacefulness that had been lost.  007’s blue eyes were hard and snapping with furious energy that fused his muscles with steely tension.

“It would appear that Mr. Silva has been planning his return for some time, and managed to slip in while all reports still placed him in Russia,” M said without inflection, at least pretending not to be intimidated by the presence of an agitated 00-agent.  Everyone else had sprung away from him as if Bond were radioactive.  “Q dealt with the problem admirably, and security was called.”

“They couldn’t find him, though,” Q had to add, unable or unwilling to see this debacle as anything but an unmitigated failure.  As he dropped his hands to his lap and raised his head to meet 007’s gaze, the redness where Silva’s teeth had scissored into the left side of his lower lip was brutally visible.  007’s eyes grew more narrowed - positively murderous - and an almost inaudible catch sounded in his breath as his gaze took the damage in.  Muscles in his forearms danced as his hands fisted.

“I’m fine, James,” Q sighed instantly, seeing the new question almost ready to explode from Bond’s tongue.  Part of him twitched at the use of the familiar term being used while at the workplace, but he figured M would forgive him this once for a lack of professionalism and decorum.  No one else was listening anyway, thanks to Bond playing the shark and scaring off all the other little fishes.  Lifting a hand to gingerly touch the swollen edge of skin, Q added tiredly, “Agent Silva got a little rough, but only for a moment, and then security arrived and scared him off.”

For a long moment, Bond was silent, and even M held her tongue as they waited to see whether 007 would lose his temper or rein it in.  Stubbornly, he seemed intent on hovering right between the two options, a two-pound trigger with one pound of pressure already in place.  Voice low and rigidly steady, the larger man stated quietly, “That’s not from being hit.”

Q blinked twice, but otherwise didn’t react.  He also took the slight switch in topic without complaint. “Correct,” he admitted ungrudgingly, sitting and waiting for 007’s next reaction or question.  Ever since he’d survived his little meeting with Raoul Silva, Q had found that he didn’t have the energy to argue, so he’d spent the last half-hour just answering questions and doing as he was instructed – as mechanical as the tech he loved so much.  Now was no different, except for the fact that he could feel Bond’s protectiveness sliding around him like a cloud of heat.  He was still unsure whether that made him feel secure or slightly frightened, as his eyes almost unwillingly slid across the man, from braced feet to clenched shoulders to too-still and ready hands.  

Perhaps the agent noticed the wary scan, because by the time Q reached 007’s face, it looked as though the agent were fighting to soften it fractionally.  “What is it from?” he asked with more patience.

Emotions flared without warning behind Q’s ribs, fists of anger pounding at the curves of bone in time with the sudden race of his heart-rate.  The lethargic calm that had overtaken him split for a second, and the smaller man suddenly wanted to rage, if only to rip aside the sick feeling that clung to his skin.  His mouth opened twice without anything but a little croak coming out, temper strangling him along with fear, but after working his jaw for a moment he managed to murmur in a surprisingly frigid tone, “Silva’s a biter, it seems.”

For a split-second, both M and Q braced for Bond to absolutely detonate.  The man went ramrod stiff and his hand twitched tellingly towards the gun he had holstered at his side in full view – something that honestly should have been removed from his person, but no one with any self-preservation would have dared to try.  007’s eyes paled a shade, becoming ice, but while his gaze solidified, his anger liquified, seeming to break from his control and flood him with palpable, hot wrath. A growl actually started in his throat and his jaw visibly clenched.  

“Bond!” M snapped, even though the man technically hadn’t moved, and those crystalline eyes snapped her way.  “If you can’t control yourself, there are always holding cells willing to contain you while you throw a tantrum.  I’d dearly miss your expertise in securing MI6, however, and possibly finding out just where Mr. Silva has gotten to.”

It took effort, clearly, but when Q also reached forward with a tentative hand and brushed his fingertips hesitantly against the back of 007’s wrist, James twitched and then deflated.  His eyes were on Q - suddenly betraying intense worry and pain now that the anger had been suborned - as he spoke to their boss, “Fine.  No tantrums.  But I can’t promise I won’t knock the taste out of Silva’s mouth if I meet up with him.”

M’s face said she’d take what she could get; at least this wasn’t an all-out declaration of premeditated murder.  Then again, Bond was a 00-agent: if he was planning murder, he was savvy enough to keep it hidden.  “Glad that’s settled then.  I’ll leave you with Q for a moment - watch him while I have a talk with security.  Agent or not, Silva should not have been able to waltz in here so easily, and there will be repercussions for attacking his new Quartermaster.”  M strode towards the door with her usual clipped stride, but dipped her head deferentially as she bid the men adieu, “007.  Quartermaster.”

007 watched her go and murmured some farewell also, but Q just sighed and rested his head in his palms, recalling his glasses as an afterthought and doing his best not to smudge them.  He jumped when he felt a palm on his shoulder, then eased into it when he registered that it was warm and not sickly cool like Silva’s touches.  “I’m _fine_!” Q stressed immediately, hearing the denial in his own voice and knowing that he’d cave in eventually, “I wasn’t attacked physically, and security arrived with impressive quickness.  For all we know, Silva was just trying to be a regular bastard, and this will all blow over.”

Clearly making up his own mind about Q’s condition, Bond moved to sit on the Quartermaster’s desk.  Q was in a chair right in front of it, and his shoulder brushed one muscled thigh as 007 settled in.  A calloused hand on the far side of Q’s neck urged him to lean into the limb, and Q gave in with ill grace, a sharp sigh buffeting the air.  He felt a bit better as the hand cupping the side of his neck moved down a bit to squeeze at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, kneading the tendons and sinews that had bunched themselves up into knots.  If Q’s tone hadn’t betrayed his tension, Bond was finding evidence of it under his strong fingertips now.  

“Regardless of Silva’s intentions, this isn’t going to just ‘blow over’,” Bond said, low and sensible.  His temper had died, or at least he’d compartmentalized it enough that it wasn’t bleeding out of him.  When the man beneath his touch relaxed a bit, 007 moved his fingers up to rub in soft circles just behind Q’s ear, finally earning a near-silent sigh.  “You’re the new Quartermaster, and no matter what anyone thinks of that, the title entitles you to a certain level of respect that Silva flagrantly didn’t give you.”  Suddenly, James’s hand slipped around under the smaller man’s jaw, tipping his head back fast enough that Q hissed in a little breath of surprise.  Even when worried and angry, however, 007 was conscious of his own strength and actions, and held Q gently as he arched his head back.  “Plus, there’s the matter that he _did_ attack you,” intoned James in a low and near-feral growl.  Blue eyes looked down on Q’s bisected lip, clearly furious, but the look softened when 007 turned his gaze to find Q looking back up at him steadily - full of more trusting calm than he deserved.  With a sigh, 007 released, and Q resumed his former posture only to stand up and turn around, facing the agitated agent head-on.  

“I’m fine,” Q said again, hands finding their way to 007’s knees in a light touch.

“ _I’m_ not!” was the explosive reply.  For a moment, both men froze, then glanced at the shut door to see if anyone was about to rush in to find out what the ruckus was about.  No one did, thankfully, but Bond wasn’t done, lowering his volume but unable to gentle his tone.  Warm, almost desperate hands caught Q’s waist, pulling him forward until he stood between Bond’s knees with very little distance between them - close enough to see the emotions rioting in those pale-blue eyes.  “Q,” Bond sighed, trying to eject some of his frustration before it got him into trouble - or got Q hurt, “ _You_ may be fine – although I doubt that, too – but I’m just about up to my ears in plans to kill Silva in the slowest and most painful way possible.”  James’s mouth twisted downwards into an angry grimace, and his eyes moved as if magnetized to the bite on Q’s lower lip before finally lurching forward and just pressing a searing kiss to the other side of the Quartermaster’s mouth.  The contact still sent little sparks of discomfort through Q’s skin, but there was so much fire in 007’s kiss that it burned the pain away dizzyingly.  It seemed James was trying to map his mouth - tongue swiftly bypassing Q’s lips and teeth, skillfully tackling Q’s own tongue back into his mouth - or just barely remembering to be careful as he wiped traces of Silva way.  Q had to grab for 007’s lapels to keep from being bowled over backwards, but then 007’s tightened his legs, pinning Q between his thighs efficiently.  Both were panting when they pulled back, Q’s mind rather pleasantly blank of anything besides physical sensation.  

“You have to know, Q, that possessiveness is part of the package,” Bond warned, looking slightly guilty for his abrupt actions as he saw that he might have made the wound more painful again.  Ironically, Q didn’t even notice at the moment.  His attention was on the lingering tastes of scotch and butter from whatever breakfast Bond had gotten.  “No matter what anyone says, the idea of Silva getting close enough to…”  007 stopped with a low growl, and his grip over Q’s hipbones tightened as if he were trying to anchor himself and not be blown away by the storm of his temper.

“Close enough to give me such an intimate wound?” Q managed to finish with only a slight cringe.  Being this close to Bond, it was unexpectedly easier to talk about.  He’d expected to basically die of shame and embarrassment, but it looked almost as though the 00-agent were more undone than he was at the moment.  It was comforting.  And even if it wasn’t, the heat of Bond all around him was like a tattoo pressing into his skin - or armor, wrapping stubbornly around his more fragile frame.  Q knew that in a physical fight, he was no match for Silva, but the look in 007’s eyes and the press of his strong hands was a reminder that Q had a weapon of flesh and bone at his disposal.  One that was more than willing to do his Quartermaster’s dirty work in this case.  “He probably did this just to rile you up,” Q guessed, touching the edge of his mouth self-consciously even as he tried to put some steel back in his spine.

Bond grumbled a retort while his eyes unhappily followed the motion, “It’s working.”  

~^~

The rest of the morning was hectic, all of the languor and calm of the morning having disappeared for literally everyone.  MI6, for lack of a better description, was up in arms. Q was shocked by how outraged everyone was.  Not just Bond, but the majority of the people working under Q were furious at Silva’s actions - apparently, the new Quartermaster was more well-liked than he realized.  

“There’s no sign of him in MI6, and bloody security didn’t even see him come in,” reported Bond, stalking into Q-branch from where he’d forcefully inserted himself into the search for Silva.  Bond did not look impressed by what he’d found.  “I know Silva’s an agent, but-”

“Here.”  Q’s finger jumped to the screen, indicating something on his computer that looked like nothing short of Greek to 007.  Or perhaps some other unreadable language, because Bond actually _did_ know some Greek.  “Silva got in here.  This isn’t a security breach caused by human error - it’s a technological one.”

“Q, I don’t even know what you’re looking at,” Bond admitted truthfully, although he leaned closer obediently, edging around the new Quartermaster to get a better look at the windows up on Q’s screen.  “How do you know that...all this…”  He gestured vaguely and a bit helplessly at the source of Q’s focus.  “...Translates to one MI6 bastard slipping in without alerting security?”

“Because I’d know Silva’s hacks anywhere,” Q replied grimly, a thread of a shiver just catching his next inhale of breath as he was transported back to older days: memories of sitting alone or with Caesar’s men at his back, trying to outsmart or outrun the hacker chasing him from the other side of the connection.  He remembered Silva’s brutal hand - both with coding and with Q himself.  None were good memories, but at least they’d stuck and were doing him some good now.  “He hid all of this in a system I’d have no reason to look into,” Q pulled himself back to the present to explain, not noticing as other people gathered around.  What parts of his mind weren’t focused on the computer were subconsciously seeking comfort in the heat of 007’s seeping into his right shoulder and side where they stood close together.  “I’m supposed to be looking after agents, not MI6 itself - but now Silva’s drilled a bloody hole in some of the security.  Someone should tell M,” he noted distractedly, “I’m patching it up as we speak, but I’m not sure…”  Q’s frown pulled down a little more at the sides of his mouth, and as he leaned closer, Bond picked up on his body language and tensed more, too.  

“What is it, Q?”

“Shit,” Q swore, and immediately stopped poking at whatever he’d been investigating and immediately began to bring up new windows, unexpectedly unplugging his computer and running it on battery alone as he typed in a flurry of motion.  “This isn’t just a stagnant chunk of code - it’s a dormant virus!  Silva’s been planning this for some time, or else he’s suddenly learned to just pull technological monsters like this out of his arse.  Bond-!  Dammit.”  Q was fuming.  He’d seemed so fragile and resigned earlier, with his bloodied lip and tired stance - to say nothing for the fact that he still hadn’t slept since that night in bed with James.  Now, however, it was as if someone had plugged the hacker into an outlet full of fire, and he glared with quick eyes skating across his computer.  “I found the bug in time to unravel it a bit, but it’s active now - it was wired to disable the door-locks.”  

Now Bond swore, too, pushing back from the computer and pulling out his phone, immediately calling the number that would get him to M.  “We have a problem,” he ground out without preamble, keeping near Q and glancing at him intermittently as if in hopes of garnering more information.  The smaller man, however, was once again acting like a Quartermaster - without hesitation, he’d started barking clipped orders to the other Q-branchers under him. They scurried to obey, hearing the ring of command in those conservative tones.  Q was moving quickly even as someone shouted from the far side of the room, where a door had apparently gone from locked to unlocked without warning. Q looked up, expression tight and grim. Behind him, Bond was looking the same, but with that glint of impending murder edging in again. Q shot him a look that seemed to belay him a moment, and then the Quartermaster was scurrying off to another desk, pulling open a drawer and immediately digging around in it. “007,” he called.

The agent – now assuming the roll of assassin rather than lover, as the title bade him to – came over immediately, exchanging a few more swift murmurs with M over the phone before lowering it from his ear without disconnecting.  “Yes?”

“Take this. Silva must be nearby to be activating his virus with such good timing – I don’t believe in coincident, and Silva might be good, but he’s not good enough to trick me into setting off viruses for him.”  Q turned and held out his hand to Bond, palm up, with an earpiece nestled on it.  “You have your gun already, so this is all I have for you at short notice.  I’m going to try and get a bead on exactly where Silva is, although doing that while trying to secure MI6 again will be difficult.”

“We’ll help you on that.”  R’s head popped into view from behind a computer.  “Just point us in the right direction, Quartermaster – we’ll do what we can.”

Looking a little mystified by the show of support, Q nonetheless nodded, and Bond knew him well enough to see some tension leaving the smaller man’s shoulders. Bond took the opportunity to put in his new earpiece, giving it a little tap to turn it on.  “I’ll inform M.”

“I’m already listening,” came the voice form the phone even as he lifted it to his other ear, “and support Q’s plan.  I’ll round up any other agents in MI6 and have them coordinate with you.”

All of the information was swiftly relayed between everyone, and then Bond was tucking his phone away, leaving the room before he could think to do anything sentimental like kiss Q goodbye. 

Then again – like always, it seemed – Q had never really left his side. The voice in his ear brought an involuntary smirk to 007’s face as Q turned on his end of the comm-link and said with dry, competent tones, “Well then, this wasn’t exactly the first mission of yours I’d thought I’d be in charge of.”

“It’ll be more memorable this way,” Bond joked back. 

“Good god, as if our usual interactions aren’t memorable enough,” was the scoffed reply, although Bond knew Q was referring to their various unorthodox adventures, it sounded enough like an innuendo to make him chuckle.  “What?” the new Quartermaster’s clueless response caught in his ear.

“Nothing, Q. Can you tell me where I’m going?”

“Right now, you’re supposed to be here waiting for the other agents M is pulling in, but that’s rather a lost cause, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a team player,” Bond said past a crooked smirk.

“Good.” It sounded suspiciously like Q might be smiling back – 007 could imagine the little quirk of his lips affecting his words.  “Neither am I. Maybe we’ll work well together.”

“Maybe,” concurred the agent with a broadening smile before he truly buckled down to the task of hunting, gun already drawn and waiting in his grip at his side.

~^~

“Do you have your phone, Bond? I’m sending a map to it now, which should make it easier to direct you until I get Silva’s bloody virus to release its hold on the security cameras,” Q said with professional calm thinly covering some very bloodthirsty annoyance. 

“Got it,” Bond said by way of answer, adding with a grim tone of his own, “No sign of those additional agents yet, but I’m beginning to wonder if Silva got in with more help than just that virus.”

“I’m suspecting as much as well,” was the slightly sighed response, and even over the ear-piece, Bond could hear the familiar sounds of hurried typing from the scrawny Quartermaster, “This virus is quite a brute to deal with, but it’s not as sophisticated as I at first thought.  Silva would have had to enlist additional help to get in – I’ve already informed M that some of the security detail might have been bribed, or even switched allegiances entirely.”

“I bet M is just about breathing fire right about now.”

“She’s threatening to skin the _entire_ security detail, but I told her to wait and see which were guilty before she took out the carving knives,” Q said with remarkable blandness considering the topic. “Have you run into anything of note yet?”

“Nothing but unlocked doors,” Bond responded, tone giving away how eerie that was to him. As a 00-agent of good repute (or at least decently good repute, when he wasn’t on M’s bad side), his code would get him pretty much anywhere in the building, but he still had to actually _use_ that code to unlock the doors. Right now, they all swung open at a touch.  “Are the outer doors at least secure?”

“I’m working on that, but at the moment, any lock that’s not strictly mechanical is well and truly out of commission,” Q admitted unhappily, “M has local authorities on standby, but with possible traitors in the ranks, she’s expressed hesitance about getting too many outsiders in the line of fire.”

“So this is staying in-house?”

“Most likely. There – I’ve hopefully updated your map to include possible routes.  Silva is still responding to my attempts to disarm his virus, so he has to be hooked into the system, something that he can’t do remotely.  There are a limited number of places he could be. M is also getting this information.”

“And the other agents she has running about?” Bond asked, already aligning his trajectory with one of the yellow lines showing up on his phone, overlying a familiar blueprint of MI6. 

Q hesitated, but finally admitted in a quieter voice, “I’ve only been in contact with you.” He defended more strongly a moment later, more typing coming across the comm-link, “Any other agent I’ve worked closely with is out of the country at present, and M doesn’t exactly have the monopoly on paranoia – I will _not_ give out information to people who might be enemies!”

“Easy, Q, I wasn’t second-guessing your judgment,” Bond appeased him, and let some of the secret pleasure curling hot and welcome in his chest seep into his words. It was childish, but he liked the singular trust being shown him – liked this idea that he was the Quartermaster’s favorite.  The thought alone made him smirk even as his feet carried him swiftly down the halls, every sense afire with alertness.  “Silva’s also a dangerous bastard, so I don’t envy anyone else’s chances even if you _did_ give directions to everyone.”

“And you?” There was worry in that simple question, but it was locked down tight, so the question came across as unaffected and almost idle. 

“I’m a dangerous bastard, too, so don’t worry about me, Q,” was the low growl of a response, and then the line went quiet for awhile as 007 tracked down the path Q had given him, a hound scenting out every hole his quarry might be in. 

Q was making headway on his own. While it was true that Silva was a truly gifted hacker, he still wasn’t the prodigy Q was, and it showed as he began to use increasingly brutish measures to fend off the deft stabs Q was making at him through the ether.  It brought back unsettling memories of other times he’d fought Silva through computer systems, and more than once Q had to hold his breath, forcing himself to remember the entire Branch working around him – the agent he had at the end of a comm-link – that he wasn’t alone this time.  Each time Q got that firmly in his head, he came back stronger, ripping to shreds the claws Silva had dug into MI6’s systems.  “You may not think that I’m the Quartermaster here, but _I_ do,” Q snarled softly but viciously to his distant opponent, his end of the comm-link muted so he didn’t distract Bond, “And you’re going to get out of my systems if I have to manually rip out every trace of you.”

Disaster came from an unexpected front: without warning, the entirety of Q-branch went dark, with the exception of the few laptops (such as Q’s) that had a battery to rely on. Cries of fright flashed through the sudden darkness as people were startled and suddenly left adrift, and if Q hadn’t had the comm-system routed through his laptop out of paranoia, he would have been just as alarmed.  Instead, he focused on how R and S could already be heard restoring order, and switched the ‘mute’ off his end of the comm-link.  “Bond, power just went down in Q-branch.  Status?”

“What?!” 007 barked back, but regained his composure with admirable swiftness to answer, “Well, it’s still bright here, and I haven’t heard anything about other sectors of MI6 going dark.  I thought you have back-up generators or something for situations like this?”

“We should, but they don’t seem to be coming on,” Q admitted, his mind already running through scenarios as his fingers flashed across his laptop keys.  “I’ve got some incoming messages that say an explosion was heard in the southeast wing, which would explain a few things.” He already had blueprints up on the screen, showing the layout of headquarters.  “Long story short, that would be where I’d strike if I felt like cutting the power to whole sections of MI6 at a time.  Accounting just reported that they’re in the dark, too.”

“And the back-up generators you mentioned?” 007 queried, breath coming just a little fast to prove he was still moving, tracking an enemy who was as elusive a prey as Bond was powerful a hunter. 

“There must be something interfering with them.”  Q gave his head a shake, “Darkness aside, though, James, we’re fine – I’ve got enough tech that runs on batteries to keep up the fight on this end.  Focus on finding Silva.”

“Like hell,” was the sharp response, although 007 backed off his tone enough to also observe professionalism, “Sir.  I’m circling back around. If Silva caused a black-out in Q-branch, he’s likely to be around there anyway.”

Q let out a breath that James instinctively knew meant that the new Quartermaster had considered arguing with him but then just gave it up as a lost cause – and then Bond had to wonder just how he’d come to know a man so well when he’d started out as an enigma with scared eyes and a genius mind.  “Fine, 007,” was the dry sound of acquiescence, “Do try not to get into trouble on the way back.”

“Why do you think I’d get into trouble?” Bond continued the banter, liking the feel of it almost as much as he liked the way the hacker gasped just a little every time he surprised him with a kiss. 

“Because even if I didn’t suspect already, nearly everyone in all of MI6 has taken the time to warn me about your bad habits,” was the prompt reply, but Bond sensed amusement hidden in it. Q’s voice darkened then, a grim edge forming as he amended, “Of course, if you find Silva, I expect you to do everything in your power to apprehend him.”

“Q, if I find him, I’m probably going to do everything in my power to _kill_ him, but I’ll work on it,” promised 007, before Q muted his end of the comm-link again and let the topic stand. 

“Quartermaster?” It was R, face tense at whatever had just been routed to her phone when the majority of the computers went down. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“What is it?” Not wanting to leave his work, Q nonetheless got up and walked over with quick steps, mindful of the pervading dark in the room.  He was shown a text from Tanner, who honestly should have been with M, but apparently he’d been tangled up in Accounting when their power went down, and had been on his way back. With agents playing a game of cat-and-mouse in the corridors, he’d been moving very carefully, the text explained…but then he’d seen something. 

“Shit,” Q breathed, as he recognized a shadowy picture of what could only be a bomb. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, things just keep getting better and better (~.^) I will try to get the next (and likely last) chapter up in a timely fashion, but I know better than to make too many promises... Still, I'm quite eager to write this final battle between our two favorite boys and our least (most?) favorite villain.


	25. End with a Bang Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva has set a bomb in MI6 - someone simply has to go and diffuse it, right? If only life were that simple...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap, and leaving you guys with a cliffhanger! I finally got a free weekend, however, so... *tosses the chapter to you and then runs for the hills*

~^~

“So far as I can tell, it will take out nearly half the building,” V whispered quietly, horror making his voice soft while similar fear made Q’s eyes large behind his glasses.  Everyone else was evacuating, but V and Q, being the two with the most knowledge regarding the diffusion of bombs.  V had actually studied the subject; Q simply had an unmatched knowledge of anything with wires.  More people in Q-branch were accustomed to things exploding (because working with 00-agents made such things utterly unavoidable), but with the risk of destruction so great… Everyone else was leaving. Q wouldn’t risk people who’d come so recently under his protection. 

Using flashlights because power was still down, the two men tried to triage the situation.  “Does it even have a timer?” asked V, growing despondent.

Q, honestly, but working very hard not to go into hysterics. Everything was happening too fast – on it’s own, each thing was fixable.  MI6 had survived power-outages just fine when Q had last caused them, and outside help could be brought in to inundate the building with people hunter for Silva. But with a bomb tossed on top of all that, suddenly there was no time or room to think of grander plans, and Q laid his flashlight on one of the storage racks in the small room, freeing up both of his hands while the beam stayed fixed on the mess wires and metal plating. “Just because we can’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t have one,” he said as steadily as possible, brushing past his coworker and beginning to carefully triage the situation.

“Bomb squad is in its way,” V reminded.

At that point, Q angled his head, seeing around to another side of the foreboding rectangle (a conglomerate of that include at least three different means of exploding, so far as Q could already tell, lashed to a heavy cabinet at about chest-height), and sighed.  “I’m afraid they might be a little strapped for time.  I found the timer.” 

V was utterly silent.  The compact little man was a tough fellow, a cool head in Q-branch at all times, but this was a lot for anyone.  Q could actually hear him swallow.  “How much time do we have?”

“Look for yourself.  I’m going to try and figure out how in the world Silva rigged this bloody thing,” Q was already dropping down to follow the wires – there seemed far too many of them for such a seemingly simple thing.  From what he knew of Silva through his hacks, the man went for overkill, though…and was also devious.  The bomb was barely even hidden, and Silva was surely aware that MI6 in general had experience with things that went _BOOM_! without warning. “Don’t touch anything, though. There’s got to be a catch…” Nothing with Silva was ever simple. “This wasn’t put together in the last half hour, that’s for sure, meaning that Silva had this planned for some time, but only put things into motion now.  So we can be there’s something vicious hidden in here.”

“Vicious besides a bomb in the heart of MI6?”

Q didn’t answer.  He’d already found something: an off- switch.  Or, at least, a series of wires that were begging to be cut, sprouting form the power-source and leading to the box itself – even with the power out, it was primed. When V noticed the obvious wiring as well, and reached for them, Q pushed him back.  “Too obvious,” he murmured, fingers twitching where they hovered over the wires, as if they could feel something in the air like secrets flashing by. 

“Too obvious?!  Quartermaster, obvious or not, we’ve only got so much time-”

Suddenly, Q was following another series of wires – they trailed off the main bulk of explosives like tentacles – and traced one upwards to a filing drawer that he nearly had to stand on tiptoe to see into.  He swore, caught between fury and triumph. “Back-up detonator,” he snapped quickly, reaching to his belt where he’d stashed tools of his own, familiar fingertips finding another purloined flashlight so that he could get a better look. V gasped behind him, as if suddenly hit by the implications of that.  “If we cut off the first one without disabling this one as well, we’re in just as much trouble as before.”

The voice that answered was cultured and smooth like honey in a poisoned cup, proud and playful around the self-assured edges.  “More trouble, actually.  Bravo, Q.  I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed by a clever boy like you.”

Q whirled, flashlight jerking around with him, but before he could consider the impulsive idea of blinding Silva with the light, he caught the dull silver glint of a gun and deflated: V hadn’t gasped in surprise, he’d gasped as he’d dropped.  Still breathing but motionless, the techy was in a heap of Silva’s feet, no doubt lowered there soundlessly.  Now, Silva had a gun trained on the helpless man’s skull, smiling smugly. Trying to swallow the bile rising up his throat, Q took in the situation, realizing that any back-up he might have had was now evacuating the building.  When he reached for his phone, he wasn’t surprised when Silva clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

“None of that, now, Q, or I’ll be forced to do something unforgivable. Take your phone out and place it on the floor like a good boy, now, and then we can talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Q snapped in a brittle but surprisingly level voice. He did as he was told without removing his eyes from Silva, or his thoughts from the timer counting down behind him. “You’ve attacked an MI6 employee, and have a bomb set to go off in under seven minutes.  Unless you want to go up in flames, too, your only choice right now is to start running for the exit.”

“While you stay here and play hero?” Silva patronized, giving Q a look as if he pitied him and his unambitious plans. 

Q just firmed his jaw, clenching his teeth briefly before biting out with a flinty stare, “I’m loyal.  If you were, then you’d offer to stay and do the same instead of attacking your own employers.”

For a moment, it looked like Q’s barb had drawn too much blood, because Silva’s face lost its jovial mask and twisted into a frown. His gun-hand twitched. Instead of shooting V in the doorway, however, he stepped forward over the man, still maintaining the threat. “How about I let you in on a little secret, _Quartermaster_?” he retorted snidely, while Q resisted the urge to back up.  There was nowhere to go, though; until the bomb took out this entire wing of the building, the only exit from the little storage room was beyond Silva.  The darkness and the weak glow of the flashlights made a ghoul’s mask of Silva’s face. “You’ve seen that my little present has two detonators, yes?”  When Q tensely stayed silent, Silva’s smile slowly returned, sickly and broad. “Here’s the trick, my dear little hacker – the _trap_. If those two detonators are not turned off simultaneously, you won’t have to worry for the timer to run out. In fact, the subsequent explosions will ensure that you never have to worry about anything ever again.”

Q’s eyes widened, and his brain immediately went over the images of what he’d seen so far of the bomb.  With the poor lighting, it as hard to get a sense of everything, but now it made sense why some things had seem over-complicated and some things almost painfully obvious.  Fear that had been festering in his gut like acid tried now to claw its way through his skin, and Q felt his options immediately shrinking and disappearing.  

“So,” Silva continued, seeing his words sinking in like poison and clearly loving the effect they were having on the Quartermaster, “as you can see, now that I’ve incapacitated your dear partner over there, you need me.”

Taking a deep breath, his mind ticking down the seconds in his head even as he forced himself to admit that there were probably still people – potential victims – in the blast radius, Q gritted out, “What do you want?”

“You, of course,” was the responding purr. Q was in no way surprised, although Silva took the time to explain anyway as he used his free hand to fish in his pocket for something.  “Surely you didn’t think I hunt around MI6 and set up this elaborate display simply for fun? Mayhap I did it to impress you a little.”  Q’s glare turned hot enough and disgusted enough that Silva’s good mood was damaged a bit, and his own glower once again came back, and perturbed look to match his less buoyant words, “Here’s the deal, pet.  I help you disarm the bomb – in return, you come with me quietly.  Your waste your skills mollycoddling a handful of agents when you could be bringing countries to their knees, and I can’t just stand by and watch anymore.”

“I hardly think that it’s your choice-” Q started to fire back, but was cut off by Silva raising his voice and suddenly charging him. Q was slammed back against the shelving in seconds, and choked as Silva rammed his right forearm up under his chin. At the same time, his left hand came out of his pocket, revealing a loaded syringe that was shortly stabbed into the meat of Q’s shoulder.  “What the _hell_?!” the smaller man coughed as he was released, one hand massaging his throat while the other touched his smarting shoulder.  A small spot of blood was leaking into the fabric where the needle had gone home.

“That bomb and this needle say that it’s my choice,” Silva declared.  The grin was back – the monster’s smile.  Eyes and hair a bit wilder from the brief tussle, Silva looked down his long nose at Q, then glanced at the bomb.  “Tick-tock, Q. We’ve only got a few minutes before everything goes up in smoke, and that soporific I gave you should set in before long, too.” 

“Sopor…?” Q repeated, knowing the word but not comprehending why he’d been injected with something that would put him to sleep. He didn’t feel anything yet, but just the idea of having something injected into him was making a whole new panic beat behind his sternum – he’d had too many needles in his past.

Silva was all too happy to explain, shrugging as he approached the bomb as if it were a benign work of art rather than utter demolition waiting to happen, “As if you’d really come quietly after the threat of me blowing up your new friends was removed – I’m not an idiot, Quartermaster. This way, you stay awake long enough to play your part, and then you get to sleep through your own kidnapping. It’s all quite simple, really, and you’re too light to even slow me down.”  Silva’s appraising eye slid up and down Q’s sparse frame, his smile becoming a suggestive leer, and Q backed up a step involuntarily as he felt the glance like a sticky touch. 

“Now, come on, Q,” Silva beckoned impatiently, flicking his fingers, “You have about two minutes now, so let’s now waste it. I’d rather be clear of here before the power is back up anyway – before things get _really_ interesting.”

Suddenly Q realized something.  He was at his bag, reaching for wire-cutters to assist Silva in disarming the bomb, but suddenly froze for a second. “There’s another bomb, isn’t there? Rigged to the generators? That’s why nothing is coming back on like it should.”

No doubt Silva, being an MI6 agent of some repute, was a good liar, but 007 was better, and therefore Q saw the twitch that gave away the lie.  “You have such a fanciful imagination, Q.” 

“And your silver tongue doesn’t work on me,” growled Q back, and instead of grabbing the wire-cutters, he grabbed the Taser that he’d acquired since the last time he’d been jumped by Raoul Silva. Without hesitation, he depressed the trigger, watching with an unhealthy amount of delight as Silva’s eyes widened and then widened even further as his body was inundated by convulsions. Screaming, the man stumbled back. His gun went off, and Q yelped as it scored a line of fire around the outside of his right forearm before the bullet lodged itself in the wall.  Silva tore the elecrodes of the Taser free but still stumbled back a few more steps – and then a few more as he, ironically, tripped over V.  The true shock, however, came just as Silva was recovering himself. Still shuddering from being electrocuted, Silva was giving a look now that said he was visually peeling Q's flesh from his bones, mentally promising to do that and more as soon as he had Q alone with the luxury of time.  Q’s breath involuntarily caught, and the needle-nosed pliers he now had in his left hand he gripped like a measly weapon, imagining all too easily just how badly things would go for him when the rogue agent next got his hands on him.

Before Silva could wade back into the room, however – having regained his footing on the other side of V, bathed in the shadows of the hallway – another gun barked, and Q just saw blood spray in the darkness before Silva dropped like a load of lead, two new holes torn through his skull.

007 appeared a moment later, gun still trained reflexively on Silva’s corpse a moment longer before he dismissed the dead man as no longer a threat and looked up into the room, seeing Q.  “You all right, Q?” he demanded, also taking in V – alive but far from conscious.

“No time for that, 007,” snapped Q back, fumbling for his tools again and trying to ignore the pain from his bloodied arm. It was just a graze, and adrenaline was doing a good job of hiding the pain, but the sight and feel of blood dripping down towards his fingers made Q want to vomit.  “We’ve got about a minute to disarm a bomb, and because Silva’s an innovative bastard-”  ‘Was _an innovative bastard_.’  “-It will take two people working simultaneously to do it.  You’re the only option.”

007, bless him, took that at face value and holstered his gun to free up his hands in a second.  “Tell me what to do.”

“Take these, and cut the red and green wires exactly when I tell you to,” Q commanded, handing wire-cutters to Bond. Standing on tip-toe again, Q investigated the top segment of the bomb one last time before leaving it to 007, who was just a few precious inches taller than him.  “That one.  I’m going to deal with this one down here, so I’ll be in the way a bit.” Bond would have to more or less lean over him to get at the wires he needed, and Q shuddered to think how unsettling that would have been with Silva helping him, plastered against him while they worked. 

007’s body was a comforting warmth against Q’s back, muscles twitching and flexing with leashed energy as the agent followed Q’s directions.  “How much time?” he asked quite calmly as he reached up to grip the wires and position himself to cut them.  Q was starting to feel lightheaded.  He swayed back once into 007’s body and then forward again, bracing a hand on the shelving. “Q?”

“You don’t want to know.”  Focusing his brain and fumbling his flashlight into his mouth so he could be sure he saw everything – missed nothing – made no mistakes, Q found the wires he wanted, knowing there was no turning back now. The second bomb was still a demon lurking and laughing in the back of his head, even as the soporific flowed through his system with growing persistence.  The only encouragement he had was that Silva wouldn’t have set the second bomb to go off until he was certain that he and Q would be out of range, which meant Q just had to survive _this_ one for now.  “O’ my mahr’k,” he mumbled around the flashlight, bent in the lee of 007’s body so that he could literally feel readiness infuse it, “One, t’hoo, _h’ree_!”

Bond undoubtedly felt Q’s movements as much as heard him emphasize the order, and there was the rather anticlimactic sounds of snipping. Q actually closed his eyes, freezing; 007 wasn’t moving either, until the Quartermaster dared to peer around at the timer. 

The flashlight fell out of his mouth, and he gave vent to delighted, slightly manic laughter.  “Seven seconds on the clock,” he got out, his smile hurting his face and light spinning at his feet where the flashlight was coming to rest like a spun bottle.  “Seven bloody seconds, thanks to myself and fucking 007-!”  He laughed a bit more in insane relief before his legs got wobbly and he slipped, kept from falling smack to the floor by Bond’s arms catching him. They locked like steel around his middle.

“Q?  Q, are you all right?  Tell me,” the agent demanded, even as he slowly let Q’s weight carry him to sit.

007’s sudden catch had knocked the wind out of him a bit, as had the laughter, which was at least receding as the relief sank in more gently.  They weren’t going to die – not immediately, at least.  He could still feel the heat up and down his back from having Bond pressed against him, and suddenly wondered deliriously what that would feel like with fewer articles of clothing on…  Q gave his head a hard shake. “I’m fine.  For now, at least – Silva shot me up with something that’s going to knock me out any minute now, but you have to call M and R and tell them that there’s a second bomb. Silva set it on the generators, I think, or the back-up ones.  It’s probably far better hidden than this one, and I don’t know if it’s set on a timer as well.”

“Bloody hell,” Bond growled, then fished is phone out of his pocket while settling Q more comfortably with the metal drawers against his back.  He cast a look at Q’s arm, clearly wanting to see to it, but unable to yet.  “Yes, R?  I’ve found Q, and the bomb is difused, but we’ve got another problem, apparently…”

Bond went on, and Q’s mind started to flicker in and out. He fought it, feeling panic reaching up to claw at his throat again as the drifting sensation of his brain brought to mind all the other times he’d been drugged, flying higher than a kite but utterly helpless, too, mind and body detached from one another. Bond was across the room, feeling V’s pulse quickly before moving onto Silva’s body and checking him over for something. He came back a moment later with something in his hands, and Q just heard him say, “The second bomb is most likely remotely triggered – and I’m holding the trigger, so don’t worry. Yes, repeat this to M. I’ve got to take care of Q.” And with that, he hung up, placing both phone and remote detonator on the floor within reach, and then – to Q’s bone-shuddering relief – sat down, easing himself in behind Q without asking. By now, the Quartermaster’s limbs were growing unresponsive and weak, so he was grateful for the agent’s capable hands maneuvering him, and even more pleased to have the warmth of 007’s chest replacing the seeping chill of the filing cabinets. Q hissed as 007’s hand wrapped around his arm just above the bullet-wound. 

“It looks bloody, but it’s just a graze,” 007 said, and Q didn’t know whom he was soothing – Q or himself.  A stumbled jaw rubbed at the side of Q’s head gently, while Bond took a strip of cloth he must have torn a moment ago and tied it quickly around the wound.  Q sucked in a sharp breath and swore again, regaining enough control over his body to wriggle uncomfortably, although 007 was already hushing him with incredible gentleness. “Shhh, shhh.  Easy, Q.  Just stopping the bleeding.”  Calloused but careful hands wrapped around both of Q’s wrists, rubbing gently at the pulse while propping his knees up, Q cradled between them as he continued to drift away. “Do you know exactly what Silva gave you?”

“N…no,” Q shook his head groggily, feeling his head rock back.  He was supported everywhere by muscular agent, however, and drifting off didn’t seem so scary anymore. “But he didn’t want me dead, just… just compliant.  Asleep.” He wet his lips as if that would stop the slurring, or the way they felt numb like the rest of him. An absent smile wove itself across his lips as he felt 007 nuzzle at him again, an incongruous motion for a man who’d just executed a kill-order a few minutes ago.  One hand remained to track Q’s heartbeat through his wrist, but the other came up to caress Q’s hair, coaxing Q to tuck his head beneath Bond’s chin before burying briefly in the Quartermaster’s wild nest of hair, holding him there tightly.  “I hate… hate being drugged,” Q muttered in something precariously like pouting, and he shifted again uneasily before familiar, petting hands soothed him. “But this isn’t so bad,” he admitted blurrily.

007 chortled, the sound erupting over Q’s head and vibrating up and down his spine in a way that did funny things to him. “You just can’t take naps like a normal person, can you?”

Q frowned, his brain slowing down so he was having a hard time figuring out if he was being teased.  He twisted his head just enough to look up at Bond, but with the power still out and only flashlights for illumination, he only got a playful glint of blue to show the agent’s intentions.  “I can sleep like a normal person!” he protested, eyelids fluttering.

“No, you bloody can’t,” smirked Bond, then lowered his hand from Q’s hair to brush scarred knuckles against his cheek, adding, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Go to sleep, Quartermaster, I’ll be here until it wears off and you wake up.”

The two sat like that, in the barely-lit room accompanied by one unconscious techy and one dead traitor, 007 carefully supporting the limp, skinny frame of his Quartermaster until the light came back on – sans explosions of any kind – and a Medical team found them sometime later.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than my usual ones, buuuut to make up for it, how about I promise you a sexy chapter to end it all with? It's clichéd, I know, but the chapter _does_ say 'End with a _Bang_ ' doesn't it...? 
> 
> haha If any of you have followed my stories before, you know I don't write sex scenes, but that's not for lack of interest - therefore, I'm willing to give it a try, but warn you ahead of time that it might be a bit rocky! But Q and Bond deserve sexiness, and you readers do, too, for bearing with me for so long on this fic! <3


	26. End with a Bang Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond helps Q settle into his flat (which, of course, includes a certain amount of fluff and smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You heard me. There is smut involved!!! Truth wrote smut!! Like, sexy naked stuff. *shoos you off to read*

As Q stepped through the door, his eyes were greeted by sparse but elegant lines, windows that gave a view like he’d never seen, and rooms that worked with the expanses of glass to create an illusion of space. “My own flat,” Q murmured, almost childishly proud to have picked the place out for himself.  He could hardly remember the last time he’d had his own space, much less _place_ , but somehow it was even nicer to know that MI6 trusted him enough to live on his own without an MI6 agent watching him. 

Said MI6 agent was there, too, easing down a few of Q’s bags before joshing, “If you were so tired of living with me, you could have just said so.”

Q tore his eyes away from the bits of furniture that had been moved in just yesterday, looking at Bond even though he’d clearly heard the laughter in the man’s affronted tone.  “You know it’s- _nmmphff_!” Q started to soothe only to be cut off by 007’s mouth, artfully applied to swallowing Q’s words and any sounds following that. Q stumbled back, unconsciously aware that Bond would keep him from tripping, until his back was pressed against the broad pillar that made the central hub of the apartment. Although Q’s mind had stuttered from the surprise, he regained himself enough to kiss back – kissing 007 on a semi-regular basis had given him at least enough practice to do that, knowing what the other man liked – and finally disengaged, panting. “Well then, I’m glad to see you’re not too broken up about my moving out,” he breathlessly observed.

Hands splayed on the off-white wall by Q’s shoulders, Bond grinned wickedly, clearly proud of himself and not afraid to show it. “I’m more worried that you’ll dislike how often a trained assassin is now going to be breaking into your flat,” the agent mused as if this were a great conundrum, then lowered his head in to press open-mouthed kisses to the side of the Quartermaster’s pale neck and jaw.

Pulling in an involuntary gasp as teeth scraped lightly at his jawline, Q braced his hands on 007’s shoulders without pushing him away in the slightest.  “Normal people,” he felt he had to note, before he got too distracted…which always happened rather quickly with James, “just ask for a key.”

“Normal people,” replied Bond in the same cadence, but maybe with more derision behind his flippant tone, “are boring.” He enunciated this fact by finding the soft spot behind Q’s ear and sucking at it, pulling a mewled inhale from his partner – a delicious sound that only encouraged James.  “Tell me if I’m going too fast, Q,” he toned down the sex in his voice enough to murmur in all frankness, once again showing that rare gentle side that he seemed to save purely for Q.

A month had gone by since that final ‘Silva incident,’ and Q had gotten quite a bit of dating/interpersonal experience with his lethal boyfriend since then.  He’d found out that 007 was extremely tactile, perhaps something drawn over from his work, in which you either wanted the people around you to be far enough away that you could shoot them without them touching you, or close enough that you knew what every inch of them was doing.  For someone who was borderline touch-starved like Q, it was a bit of a shocking change of pace, but Bond was smart enough to tone it down to levels that wouldn’t spook his Quartermaster.  Those levels had been…exceptionally enjoyable, once Q got his brain back together to think it over.  Still, he appreciated Bond’s patience and consideration. 

But now that Q had a flat of his own, was the Undisputed Overlord of Q-branch, and barely even resembled the addicted, sickly mess he’d arrived at MI6 in, he was more than ready for less patience and consideration.

“And what…”  He gasped in a little breath as 007’s hot breath filled his ear, trapped there as the larger man pinioned his head between both of his hands like a dove he’d caught and didn’t want to ever release.  “…What if I think you’re not going fast enough?” the Quartermaster finally managed to breathe out while the exact meaning of his words got caught somewhere between his brain and his tongue – lost in the sweet fog that Bond always filled his head with.  The man was a drug.

Right now, the man had frozen, moving only enough to ease his head fractionally back.  He still had Q’s head between his hands, and the space between his face and Q’s could only be measured in hairs’ breadths, but now his eyes were narrowed slightly as if he couldn’t tell whether he had a present on his hands or a live bomb. “Repeat that one more time, Q,” he said, voice holding a small vibration, holding something in by chains that were already quivering, “Humor me.”

“I said,” Q halted and took a deep breath, squirming a little because he was fairly sure that he was blushing now. It was discomfiting just how hard it was to avoid Bond’s eyes when the man was this close, frowny, and intense. “I said, in summation,” he stumbled along.

“That you’d like to go a bit faster?”

“That I’d possibly like you to fuck me in my own flat. Since I now _have_ my own flat, that is,” Q finally got the words to fall out of his mouth in an ungainly but unrepentant mess.  He stood and met Bond’s eyes after that, unsure whether it would be appropriate or not to look stubborn right now.  Once he really got a good solid look at Bond’s expression, however, he mostly tried to just remember how to breathe, because the sky-pale blue eyes had turned a dark, dirty cobalt as the pupils tried to blot out the color like an eclipse. 

“I suddenly am having new and wonderful feelings towards your new flat,” Bond stated in a voice closer to a growl, and then he had his mouth firmly on Q’s and was moving his hands to somewhere more productive than on either side of his jaw.  Q inhaled sharply as 007 had his shirt untucked with speed that had to be illegal, allowing scarred, calloused hands to slip under the material and cradle the small of Q’s back without anything in the way.  It was nothing beyond what they’d done before already, but what sent electric charges skittering up Q’s spine were the little things that said this was something more – the hungrier taste of Bond’s teeth against his lower lip, the scratch and slide of his fingertips against the lean lines of Q’s back as he tickled at the curves of his lowest ribs.  This was James being unleashed slowly, Q realized, and instead of balking at the idea, he shivered and dared to kiss back. He was probably playing with fire, but damn if he didn’t enjoy the heat.  007 groaned at the returning press of Q’s lips, as if Q’s skills – which paled in comparison to Bond’s in this category, if only because of the bulk of experience the agent had – were pure artistry.

“You kiss like a shot of whiskey,” Bond said suddenly, his voice a husky slide of breath.  Sometimes Q wondered if the man was a mind-reader in his spare time, or if he was just that good at reading faces. 

“Hm?” Q replied back intelligently as he struggled to think of something better to say.  It got harder as 007 pulled him forward, still pressing him back with kisses until Q’s skull gently bumped the wall while his hips and stomach were hugged possessively closer – the sudden friction just about knocked words right out of his head. Q perhaps kissed like a surprising little shot of whiskey, but Bond was like a bullet wound: direct, efficient, coming on with a shot of endorphins that could hide any pain he inadvertently caused. Maybe guns didn’t ever mean to destroy – maybe they just had a sucker-punch sort of love, and no other way to get their point across.

Thoughts fragmenting around the edges and mind’s-eye filled with images of 007, so perfectly at home and poised with a gun in his hands as if he’d been carved that way forever, Q reached out blindly, fisting his hands in Bond’s jacket.  He was going to suffocate from these kisses, but it would be a happy way to go if he brought 007 down with him.  He began to push at the layer of clothing, and 007 obliged by removing his arms just long enough for them to slide loose, while his mouth stayed stubbornly attached to Q’s, lapping at his lips and tongue.  The black, expensive material puddled on the floor like a forgotten scrap. “Your turn, Q,” Bond rumbled against Q’s cheekbone, letting both of them breathe a second, “Pick an article of clothing to lose.”

“If I take off a sock,” Q found himself giggling helplessly, testing out the feel of 007’s muscles through his white silk shirt, “is that constituted as cheating?”

“Depends,” was the returning chuckle, low and delighted like coffee, “Does this game have rules?”  To prove his point, Bond ducked his head down against Q’s neck, mouthing at skin before testing it with ever-bolder bites, the kind that could leave wonderful marks for everyone to see.  Each added bit of pressure sent sparks skittering through Q’s nerve-endings.

“Shirt,” he stuttered out, determined to have his say in things while his mouth still worked, “Only fair: you lost your jacket, so I-”

Bond cut him off with another low roll of pleased laughter, his hands again catching the edge of Q’s shirt – both layers, actually, because the man had been trained to cheat to achieve his objectives – and pushing them upwards.  Quite on purpose, his hands skated up every inch of Q’s skin he could find along the way, flowing over flanks and ribs and then shoulders and lithe arms. Q just about lost his glasses along the way, but within seconds he was standing naked from the waist up, panting and leaning against the wall while hungry blue eyes watched him from a pace away. Purposefully, Bond tossed Q’s discarded clothing on top of his.  “You can tell me to stop, Q,” he reminded, one pale brow rising. 

“If you dare stop now, I’m going to give you nothing but water-guns and cheap walkie-talkies for the rest of your miserable life!” Q threatened, stabbing at the middle of 007’s broad chest with a finger. Then he stepped forward, taking advantage of the moment of control, and bent his attention to Bond’s shirt. “Now, let’s see about these buttons…”

It should have been humiliating to have someone laughing at him so much in a sexual encounter, but somehow, every time 007’s chest vibrated with those rumbles of amusement, it only made the heat in Q’s core drop lower and deeper.  The fact that the chuckles were usually followed by heated kisses helped a lot.  Right now, intent on distracting Q from the buttons, Bond was leaning his head in to nibble at the shell of Q’s left ear. When Q batted at him, 007 merely put his hands into play.  Q wasn’t in a habit of being unclothed very often, so Bond made good use of the opportunity, exploring each sparse line and sharp angle as if he’d never seen it before – he was distracting as a blond-haired demon, and twice as enticing, especially once Q got that damned shirt unbuttoned. 

Bond was _cut_. Athleticism like this didn’t come from working out in a gym, and that kind of muscle definition only came from constantly running and fighting to survive – or to kill. Always a bit awed that he had a person like this for a partner, Q paused to splay his hands on firm pectoral muscles, although a press of teeth to his shoulder galvanized him again. “Off,” he commanded, shoving at the shirt imperiously, “off off off.”

“No one warned me that you were such a bossy thing,” 007 pretended to complain, but he obligingly disengaged enough to slip the white fabric off his arms, leaving him once again on par with Q – all skin from the hips up. 

“It’s an acquired trait.  Dealing with you 00-agents forces one to become bossy,” Q informed him dryly.  He liked the way 007’s eyes lit with challenge. 

A flick of his eyes took in how Q’s breath had picked up, seeing also the unconscious dart of his tongue to wet his lips, 007 waded forward again, this time steering Q back and around the wall. The bedroom was just visible around the way.  “How about I be the bossy one for a bit?” he said in a maddeningly musing tone, as if he’d just thought of the idea.  As if walking backwards weren’t hard enough, Q had to contend with sporadic, distracting kisses from Bond as he went.  Thankfully, the agent was considerate enough – and strong enough – to keep the Quartermaster upright and smoothly moving by keeping a firm grip on his elbows. Q barely felt the half-open door to the bedroom swing the rest of the way open against his back because 007 was whispering rough-voiced things in his ear, “Tell you what to do, hold you so that you feel _everything_ , get inside you so you can’t imagine what it was like before me…”

It was not so much the words as the unstoppable noise of them, the tide rushing in, the heat that gave Q just the faintest taste of what sex would be like with the man already tipping him onto the sheets. The bed had somehow come up behind his knees without warning, and Q yipped a little in surprise, which only made Bond smirk as he climbed up after him.  The agent was a continued surprise in how agile he could be for a man of his size and heavy musculature, and he was over Q in moments. Both of them lay on the bed, breathing faster, pupils blown, and pants definitely beginning to feel a bit tight. Bond didn’t help that at all as he settled his weight between Q’s compliant legs, withholding some of his weight by leaning on his elbows while trailing kisses up the smaller man’s sternum. The weight of 007’s stomach pressing down against Q’s groin was definitely some definition of madness. “This okay, Q?” Bond asked, somewhere between playful and utterly serious. 

Q didn’t know what to do with his hands. His legs he’d given up on – they were shifting uneasily on the bed, wanting to push up and gain purchase on the blankets that had probably been put in place by Eve when she’d agreed to situate his things (he’d argued that he could set up his own flat, but with that woman, arguing was useless).  Bond’s weight had him pinned however, from the hips down, while Q’s hands fluttered uncertainly over his forearms, biceps, shoulders, and neck. “More than all right,” he finally agreed when he realized that 007 wasn’t going to go anywhere – or go any further – without explicit consent.  “Now, if you’d move up here so that I can keep kissing you, that would be even _more_ all right…”  Q’s mouth tipped up at the corners. 

Bond’s did the same, although the grin was a lot more mischievous.  “How about I take our trousers off first?  Then I’ll come up there and kiss you thoroughly, I promise,” the man said as smoothly as velvet, and Q could only stare at him.  Thankfully, that was taken as consent, and Bond pushed himself back up and onto his heels, kneeling up between Q’s thighs to begin toying slowly with his own belt. 

“Such a showman,” Q tried to laugh, but his mouth had gone dry, and 007 was definitely grinning with lazy smugness at him. The belt was undone now, at least, but the agent spared a moment to graze his blunt fingernails down his own stomach before remembering the zip still existed.  The view was marvelous.

“I haven’t begun to show you anything yet,” Bond assured him in a voice that had dropped to a low rumble, right before he lost interest in taking his time and just shucked the offending piece of clothing. In only his pants now, it was obvious to Q just how aroused Bond was, and he tried not to be intimidated by that.

It helped that 007 almost immediately came forward again, hovering over him on hands and knees and pulling the insecurity right out of Q as he attached himself to his mouth.  The kiss was slow and languid, although still containing that phoenix heat. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” 007 murmured without fully taking his lips away, so the words existed half in Q’s mouth and half in his. 

A hot flush of happiness curled up behind Q’s sternum, and he wriggled.  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he got the words out.  He wanted more friction, a reflexive desire as natural as the need to breathe, but it abated a bit as Bond’s rough palm grazed over a nipple distractingly.

Pulling back a bit, warm blue eyes smiled down at Q’s. “Worth the wait,” 007 assured him, then proceeded to make the bed a clothing-free zone, Q hurriedly helping as his own arousal became nearly unbearable. 

Q was too much of a thinker.  It was something that destroyed his sleep, ruined most of his quiet time, and generally caused him to…well…overthink things. More than once after going out of his head with desire for the impressive looking agent in front of him, the hacker had been interrupted by his brain micro-managing the encounter and filling his head with overeager worries.  Now, as he lay propped on his elbows, completely unclothed for the first time with James…with anyone…he could already feel his thoughts starting to speed up, and they’d start awakening his insecurities any moment.  Already he was comparing the slim, lean lines of his own pale body to Bond’s athletic, handsome frame with its scars adding character against the golden tan.  “Kiss me?” Q asked, and it was a tiny bit of a plea.  When had his voice become so uncertain?

In fact, Bond had been assessing the differences between them as well, but it had been with an appreciative eye.  Now, however, those pale eyes flicked up to Q, and it took only a split second for them to deduce the encroaching insecurity on the hacker’s face. Q was new at this, but just because Bond was practiced at sex didn’t mean he was unaware of the moment of vulnerability that came with baring yourself physically – and emotionally – to a partner. Without hesitation or anything but an acquiescing nod, Bond once again leaned over Q, pressing in for a close-mouthed kiss that was built to convey tenderness.  As Q relaxed, reminded that this was James and that James had stayed by his side even when things had gotten dark and dangerous, Bond opened his mouth a bit more, deepening the kiss.  Careful application of his lips and tongue got Q to let him in. While Q was mewling happily into the kiss, 007 slowly lowered his body, bare skin coming into contact with bare skin, and Q _really_ groaned when Bond’s full weight settled between his thighs.  Q broke the kiss inadvertently, mouth opening in a little gasp of breath as his head rocked back.  Smiling proudly, 007 just watched, one finger tracing the long lines of Q’s neck as it was arched.  “Enjoying yourself so far?” he couldn’t help but tease. 

Just as Q was about to answer, 007 shifted himself – just barely – but the movement still sent sparks of sensation as their bodies touched in new and rather delightful ways.  Q’s words became another moan, and he gripped the bedsheets. “You bloody monster, you,” he eventually growled a bit breathlessly, before tipping his head to look at Bond again, revealing hazel eyes that were almost entirely swallowed with dark pupils, showing his take on this more eloquently than words.

Kissing the tip of Q’s nose impishly, Bond relented to grind his hips down a bit, the friction working wonderfully for him as well. While both of them got accustomed to the skin-on-skin contact and panted, Bond murmured, “Hm. Well, sorry to break the moment, but we’ll need lube if we’re to go much further.”

“I’d check the bedside drawer,” Q surprised him by supplying. The smaller man already looked strung out, one arm thrown over his head, fisting in nothing as he arched his back. It was like poetry to watch, and Bond pushed up just enough to watch the lean, artistic lines of his Quartermaster’s torso stretch.  “Eve not only insisted that I was incapable of decorating my own flat, but insinuated that I couldn’t properly handle my own love-life.  She heavily implied that she’d left a few helpful things by the bedside,” Q elaborated with a blush.

Bond had to laugh, a bark of surprised joviality before he got up.  It didn’t take a genius to know that Q’s eyes were on him as the agent stood up and moved, following the strong, muscular lines of the backs of his thighs and arse. “Remind me to thank Moneypenny. Profusely,” 007 said cheerfully as he returned to the bed with a container of lube – as promised – in his hand. He immediately hooked his free hand behind Q’s neck to pull him up into a fierce kiss, letting out a low and growling purr as Q’s hands wrapped up around his nape in return, long fingers sliding along the tendons of his neck before scratching at short blonde hair. Q’s hands had a wonderful habit of dancing about and wandering when his brain was disconnected by a good kiss, and James was eager to see what they’d do when Q’s brain was similarly disconnected by a good fuck. 

Breaking the kiss and pushing Q back down again, Bond said one last time, because he saw too much subterfuge and questionable morals in his work, “Say stop, and I stop.”

Instead of getting annoying by the continued halting, Q’s eyes softened just a bit.  “I know,” he hummed, and that was all the permission James needed.

Q was still nervous.  Supremely so.  It showed in the sharpness of his kisses as he nipped his way into them, the way his muscles quivered and twitched, the way he seemed to fight between the desire to touch Bond everywhere and hide everything of himself.  He still hard scars on the crooks of his elbows from all the needles that had lanced into them, and would probably always look slightly underfed and overworked (at least so long as he threw himself into the job of Quartermaster of MI6).  None of those things constituted traditional beauty and Q clearly knew it, but 007 was more than happy to make it clear that he found the dark haired man perfect.

Dribbling some lube onto one hand, Bond set himself to the task of distracting Q.  There was so much skin to touch, but with one hand wrapped just above the jutting curve of Q’s hipbone, Bond kissed the inside of one bent knee.  Blue eyes met hazel ones as Q watched him with hesitant eagerness, unable not to squeak and fidget as 007’s slick fingers touched him more intimately than they had before.  “Just relax, Q,” Bond murmured, eyes taking apart Q’s expressions like puzzles, as intense as if he were on a mission.  As he slipped his fingertips down between Q’s arse-cheeks, the agent leaned forward for another kiss, patiently removing the hesitation and replacing it with lust again.  Just as he was teasing against the hacker’s opening, Bond relocated his mouth to suckle at a nipple, triumph surging in his blood as Q gasped and arched again. While Q was blissed out, cock straining and hard again, Bond pressed a finger into him, gentle and careful. Usually, 007 took what he wanted, but for once he was with someone who knew him for who he was – someone he genuinely cared about. 

For that, James was willing to go slowly. This would be a good memory Q would not swiftly forget…

“You’re gorgeous like this, Q,” Bond praised, kissing the hollow of the bespectacled man’s throat.  Bond’s mouth quirked up fondly at the corner as Q’s hands wandered again, finding the hand 007 now had braced on the bed next to Q’s hip; dexterous fingers ran up and down the corded power of Bond’s forearm while Q’s eyes fluttered open and closed a moment.  It took a bit for Q to focus, but just as he started to frown a bit at the addition of a second finger, 007 turned his attention to Q’s other nipple, teasing the hardened nub with tongue and teeth until he had Q thoroughly distracted again. His own arousal getting maddening, Bond added a third finger and this time paused to let Q adjust, watching him between peppering kisses on the smaller man’s face, neck, and chest. “Too much?”

Q just shook his head, although his brow was slow to smooth out.  His legs moved restlessly, shifting further up on the bed, and 007 soothed him by switching his free hand to Q’s thigh.  He stroked along the length of it from hip to knee and back again.  “I…I’m good,” Q finally muddled the words together, remembering himself belatedly.  It looked like he was recalling his mind from somewhere far away.  “It’s just…different.”

“Different good?” Bond asked, while reaching up to Q’s head. He paused a moment for permission, then removed Q’s glasses.  Now he had the Quartermaster blinking up at him shortsightedly, and it was enough to make him groan with frustrated lust all on its own.  He wanted to be in Q _now_ , but it wasn’t worth the chance of hurting him.

Fortunately, the answer was accompanied by a little, open-mouthed gasp, “Definitely good.  Don’t stop.”  Q wriggled his hips to make his point. His ribs flared beneath his skin as he dragged in a breath and adjusted his body against the bedsheets – his skin looking almost ivory against the chocolate brown colors that Moneypenny had chosen.  “God, stop _stopping_!”

“Greedy _and_ bossy,” chided the larger man, but he more than happily acquiesced.  Like a card-player hiding his best tricks until the game was really set, he turned his hand and pressed against the inside walls of Q’s opening – immediately rubbing against something that made Q cry out in a high whine.  That only encouraged Bond to do it again, while scissoring his fingers slowly, watching Q come undone. 

“Yes… _yes_.  Whatever…whatever that was…yes to _that_ ,” Q panted nearly inarticulately, grasping blindly with his hands. 007 liked Q’s hands – loved them, in fact, just as much as he loved Q’s guileless looks and dry humor – and immediately lay down between Q’s legs again, letting the smaller man rut up into him while still fucking him with his fingers.  Q’s thigh squeezed around his middle while the muscles inside of him clenched against Bond’s fingers, but 007 _really_ hummed in approval when Q’s skillful, genius hands started touching him, petting all over.  Sometimes he wondered if Q saw with his fingertips, touching like a darting glance, painting and outlining the broad expanse of Bond’s shoulders, tracing the muscular curvature of his right bicep where it was next to Q’s side and propping him up, before trying and failing to get a hold on 007’s hair.  Q wasn’t even aware of it, eyes closed as his senses tried to take in all of the new sensations, until he felt 007’s lips press against one of his wrists.  When Q’s eyes turned to him, Bond slipped his fingers free – Q whined in disapproval until 007 relocated his hands to Q’s cock, a steady pull creating a gasp that 007 immediately swallowed in a kiss.  He knew he was overwhelming Q, but the sight of the hacker so high on something that was utterly natural (as opposed to a drug poisoning his system) was like water to a man lost in the desert.  Bond was greedy for it.

It took a bit of work (especially with so much of his attention focused on Q, on kissing him and stroking him), but 007 got a pillow up under his partner’s hips, arranging him without much effort.  Usually, a 00-agent’s physique served the purpose of being stronger and faster than an opponent, but in sexual situations it definitely had its perks when they needed to move their bedmate to a more comfortable position.  Q was just cogent enough to notice, and Bond felt his heart-rate pick up with anticipation where he had one hand cupped against the side of the Quartermaster’s neck.  “More…” Q pulled back from his mouth to demand, “Now.  And if you call me bossy one more time…”

The panted threat made something warm and possessive uncurl more and more in 007’s chest. He ceased his skilled administrations on Q’s cock only to line his own up, running his free hand up and down Q’s side just to feel the smooth skin and graceful bones.  “Wouldn’t…dream of it,” Bond replied blithely, but his easy tone broke as he started pushing into Q’s tight heat, just the head of his cock breaching the ring of muscles.  Both he and Q were lost for a minute, muscles quivering and tightening, but Q didn’t seem to be hurt – quite the opposite.  His eyes had fluttered as he’d moaned, and his heels pressed against the curve of Bond’s arse where they’d wrapped around him. 

“Oh god…” the strangled words escaped Q’s throat.

Bond just grinned and pulled back before nudging in deeper, beginning to create a rhythm of slowly deepening thrusts.  “I’ll be your god,” he promised without an ounce of humility to his name, then leaned over to conquer Q’s mouth hungrily, circling his hips until Q groaned into his mouth and Bond was fully seated inside of him.

Silence reined except for their panting.  Q’s eyes had rolled back to show the whites, this new experience already tipping him over the edge, and 007 could see how close he was to already coming.  To be honest, despite his own wealth of experience in all manner of sex, 007 was close, too, but it had everything to do with the partner he was with.  Quality always trumped quantity, and 007 spared a moment to stroke sweat-damp hair back from Q’s face – a loving gesture before lust took hold again.  “Say my name, Q,” he pleaded just because he wanted to, just because he could.  The agent nuzzled in close and lapped up beads of salty sweat from where they’d pooled at the hollow of Q’s throat.  “Say my name like it’s the only thing you know.”

Q had been shuddering, minute quivers of muscle all over his body as his body tried and failed to decide what it wanted to do right now.  Everything was already at a peak of sensation.  007’s words centered him, though, and it took no effort at all before he was breathing out, “James…James…please, yes.”  It was hard to tell whether he was pleading or simply voicing a delirious sort of pleasure, but it was a call to action that 007 would never be strong enough to ignore. 

“Anything,” 007 answered as if giving an oath.  If it was an oath of allegiance, he’d given it long ago, a pledge of loyalty that he owed only to England and to Q.   No one else could have it.  Pulling out only to slide right back in, 007 groaned at the heady feel of Q all around him – Q was under him, too, and now reached up his hands to stroke 007’s bent head, mindless little petting motions that were somehow just as erotic as kisses. 007 thrust again, this time picking up the pace, bracing Q against each impact with strong hands latching into his trim waist.  James kept close the whole time, if only to hear each jerked breath and to feel Q’s hands all over him. Each muscle was traced by deft fingers, each rib and edge of bone mapped out and approved of by Q’s touch, which was a counterpoint to the veracity of their lovemaking. When Q finally came – helped along by only a few tugs of Bond’s hand – 007 immediately wrapped him close, for a moment holding himself back just to feel the utter ecstasy of Q’s clenching and shuddering all around him.  He couldn’t hold out, though, and soon was coming as well, arms under Q’s back hauling the hacker close to him so both could hear the whining gasps of the other in their ears. 

When the white haze of pleasure faded, it found James with Q pulled up into his lap, still sheathed in him while the last tremors faded.  Pressed willingly against 007’s chest, Q’s panting breaths were already being painted like steam between his neck and left shoulder.  “That was…” Q shook his head, muscles already starting to go lax as he came down from ecstasy into bliss.  “I don’t have a word for that.”

“If you did…” Bond was panting, too, eyes closed and body more relaxed than it had been in ages…possibly years. “…Would it be a good word?”

“A very good word,” Q agreed without hesitation, nodding into 007’s shoulder before tensing his legs and lifting up from Bond’s thighs.  Both of them hissed a bit as they parted, feeling the absence of the other like puzzle pieces missing.  Because Q looked like he just wanted to curl up into a happy puddle, 007 gladly took up the chore of cleaning them off before curling up at Q’s back and pulling the blankets up over both of them.  He thought that Q had actually fallen asleep until one ankle slid back to wrap around his, a silent indicator that he valued the closeness.  In mute response, Bond wrapped himself closer, one arm curling around Q’s stomach and petting the smooth, flat muscles. Q was still breathing fast, coming down from the high, but seemed to be taking immense comfort in the fact that he was doing so with someone he trusted – and loved – nearly tattooed to his back.

“Bond?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t have to buy another new flat for us to do this again, do I?”

“I hope you’re joking,” Bond chortled, squeezing Q closer until he was grinding against Q’s arse – more of a joking threat than anything else, as neither of them had recovered from the first round yet.  Peppering openmouthed kisses up the back of Q’s neck until the hacker giggled back and halfheartedly squirmed, 007 said with as much sincerity as he possessed, “All you have to do is _be there_ , and we can do that again.  Repeatedly. Until I can’t see straight and you won’t forget me for a week.”

Still chuckling softly both at Bond’s teasing kisses and his admittedly sexy threats, Q snorted back, “And if you bring back one more kit with more than half of its contents destroyed, you won’t forget _me_ for a week!”

“Are you making threats, Quartermaster?”

Q twisted around in his arms until they were facing each other.  With his hair mussed and eyes still rather lidded with enjoyable weariness, Q’s foreboding face was more adorable than anything else, but Bond still sucked in a breath and twisted reflexively as Q deftly tweaked one of his nipples. “I will beat you with a stick, yes,” Q clarified his threat fearlessly, although he was already failing to hide a smirk.  To perhaps avoid Bond’s roguish returning grin, Q wriggled back around again, resuming his position as 007’s ‘little spoon’.  He relaxed as if to sleep, content beneath the covers and wrapped in James’s blanketing heat. “But I will still have sex with you until your eyes cross,” he relented, and Bond had to kiss him then. That was the only answer to that.

Bond decided he rather liked Q’s new flat. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this ride comes to an end *contented smile* Hopefully my first attempt at writing sex was passable - I nearly died of embarrassment a few times while writing it, but hopefully this means I can take things a bit further in my other fics ;3 Practice makes perfect, right? Anyway, this fic was an interesting challenge to write, and hopefully worth all the late chapters and sporadic posting!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! More Q to come!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for The Hand that Holds the Leash by Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/755255) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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